I flushed scarlet and wanted to fall through the floor into the weapons container below our feet. “Ummm. He threatened to kill you.”
“So you laid claim to me?” His tone was full of peculiar emotions, feelings I couldn’t name. Didn’t understand. Except that he wasn’t teasing me. His eyes were warm, likemelted milk chocolate with flecks of hot caramel, but gleamed like brown obsidian, a high sheen.
“Seemed the most”—I hunted for a word—“most expedient way to keep you alive.” I resisted squirming in my seat like a four-year-old.
Bruiser’s lips softened and parted, his bold, sculpted nose casting a shadow across his face. “Thank you. No woman has ever wanted to protect me.”
I frowned and almost said,No man ever wanted to protect me either, except that was a lie. Eli protected me. Leo protected me when it suited his course of action and future goals. Alex and the Robere twins. The Mercy Blade a time or two. I met Bruiser’s eyes and the smell of Onorio in heat flooded the room.
Beast peeked out, making my eyes glow.Mate, she thought.
“Get a room,” Eli grunted.
“I intend to. As soon as possible,” Bruiser said, his eyes still on me. And my blush, which had cooled, burned even hotter.
Beast might as well have been rolling in catnip, she was so happy.
Eli wasn’t the eye-rolling type, but if he had been, now would have been the time. He dragged our attention to business. “Without prior authorization of the governor, Rick is the official who has to authorize Jane’s use of force—unless there is a direct threat to the populace, in which case she can act unilaterally.”
“Rick?” I said, sitting up in my seat. “Not Soul?”
“Soul isn’t here.”
“She will be,” I said, remembering Opal in stasis in the lightning. That seemed important, but nothing came to mind. “Soon.”
“PsyLED has law enforcement control here, even over the feds,” Eli said. “This is Rick’s show. So keep that in mind.”
Bruiser laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. But Beast liked it even better than the Onorio heat.
“Moving on,” Eli said. “Alex uncovered some evidence—other than Grégoire’s panicked assertion and the rising ofthe revenants of their line—that Le Bâtard and Louis Seven are both in town. It’s possible that they’re in the Roosevelt Hotel in the French Quarter. The tip came from Grégoire’s boys just before they disappeared.”
Bruiser’s eyes sharpened and his entire body came alert, all without moving a muscle. “Disappeared?”
“Brandon and Brian aren’t with Grégoire and won’t answer calls,” Eli said.
“That is very strange. And unexpected,” Bruiser said.
“We got pics of this Louis and Bâtard?” I asked.
Bruiser passed me his cell phone. On it was a photograph of a small painted portrait. I studied the likeness of the two men pictured there. One was pretty, with curling brown hair, the other wore a van-dyke beard that accentuated a cruel mouth and hard eyes. “Louis,” Bruiser said, gesturing to the pretty one.
I grunted and passed his cell back. Heard the muted click and Shemmy said, “Excuse me, sirs, ma’am. But we have a report of a revenant rising in St. Louis Cemetery Number One. There’s already video of skeletal fingers pushing through a mausoleum wall. I’m assuming you want to go there?” Shemmy sounded eager, as if he found all this entertaining as heck. Let him get chewed on by a dog-fanged vamp and see how entertaining it was. I stretched my shoulder, peeved. I liked that word.Peeved.It was more refined than sayingpissed.
“With all speed,” Bruiser said, swiping his cell. “It’s nearly dusk and we’ll have undead Mithrans responding to Le Bâtard’s call as well as revenants. This will get messy.”
“We need better gear,” Eli said.
“Correction, Shemmy,” Bruiser said. “To St. Louis One by way of Jane’s home, please.”
The limo made a quick right turn, throwing me against Bruiser. I stayed there for a moment longer than necessary before sitting up straight. I didn’t know about other limos, but Leo’s limos didn’t have seat belts. When I sat up, I started braiding my hair into a tight-fighting queue.
“That will getusgear,” Eli said. “What about you?”
“I relayed a message from the Enforcer”—he glanceddown at me—“to have a cyclist meet us at Yellowrock Securities with my gear.”
I was responsible for the MOC having motorcycles, all white, all exactly alike. Crotch rockets, fast, responsive, and popular among the blood-servants, especially the younger males, some of whom had been reprimanded for racing in the streets at two a.m. last week. Now they had permission to drive too fast.
“Sure. Whatever. And why are you going at all?” I asked.
