Cym was both witch and vamp. She had been the heir of Jack Shoffru, the Mexican MOC, a pirate vamp, one of many fangheads in the last two years who’d tried to take over New Orleans. Bancym had kidnapped Molly. Had hurt Molly. Had nearly killed Eli. During my fight with Shoffru, when Eli nearly died, I had staked Cym. But I hadn’t taken her head and she had disappeared. Clearly, she had been dragged off the battlefield and healed.
The rogue werewolves had always been Leo’s enemies, as had Titus, the EVs, and Cym. Dominique was the glue that held them all together, and she had sworn to Clan Des Citrons, which was not mentioned here. A clan would have their own parley agreements, not one tied in with the hoi polloi. Dominique and Bancym had their talons in a lot of pies, the least known and understood, Clan Des Citrons. I needed to find out about the clan, who they were, what they wanted, where they were, everything.
The summary was the part that mattered. They had all signed and agreed to pacts of aggression against their enemies. When Titus defeated Leo, he would destroy the Bighorn Pack and give the huge territory to Prism, Jax, and their pack. Titus would also grant all of Leo’s territory to the two female vamps, making them, together, the two most powerful vamps in the United States. I dropped the papers on the desk.
Leo didn’t look up. Softly he said, “The weight of years, the weight of my enemies, the weight of betrayal rests heavily on my shoulders.” It was the tone of depression, melancholy, and failure.
Eli glanced at me and gave me a quirky half grin. He leaned over and took Leo’s glass and the decanter, holding them to the lamp. “This goes for around sixty-five hundred dollars a bottle.” He sloshed a bit in the glass and swirled it. Sniffed. Added a few drops of water from the gold pitcher. Swirled and sniffed again. Leo slowlyturned his head, one of those nonhuman, snaky gestures they did, watching my partner. “I did not offer you my scotch, human.”
Eli sipped, swirling the liquor in his mouth, swallowing in tiny bursts, breathing down the fumes. “Not bad. Not better than a thirty-five-year-old Balvenie, but not bad.” He sipped again, watching Leo.
Leo said, “I have a forty-six-year-old Balvenie, 1968, cask seventy-two, ninety-three, in my cellar.”
Eli nodded. Sipped again. “Nice. Since you’re all whiny and giving up, can I have the Balvenie? I’d hate for Titus to get his paws on it.” Eli glanced at me. “Begging the pardon of the pawed and pelted.”
“Pardon granted,” I said, letting my amusement tell in my tone.
“Whiny?” Leo asked, his eyes slowly vamping out. “You are asking to raid my estate? I am not dead.” His fangs schnicked down.
“Not yet. And you’ve got the home advantage. And you now know all your enemies. But you sound defeated. You sound as if you’ve given up. What you believe about the outcome is three-quarters of the battle, so you’ve already lost. You’re dead, old man.” Eli sipped, sizing Leo up like a young recruit on the day of battle. “And I’m drinking your scotch without your permission.” Leo shot out of the chair, straight at Eli.
His jaw landed on my fist. The pop of displaced air and the thump of chin to fist overlapped. Leo dropped back, sitting on the desktop, shaking his head. He started laughing and his fangs snapped up. That was three-quarters of the battle won back. I could’ve kissed my partner.
Leo looked us over, his gaze taking in my human clothes and my cat face, hands, and feet. I could see him thinking about asking me how much of my other parts were cat shaped. “Don’t,” I said. The skin around his eyes crinkled with amusement. He slid back into his desk chair and Eli and I took chairs. Maybe it was rude to sit without being asked, but I was tired, as if the little bit of fighting I had done had taken a lot out of me. When he didn’t object, I put my paws up on the small table as if itwas an ottoman. Leo let me get comfortable. “We need to chat about—”
Leo held up a hand, stopping me.
Quesnel, the sommelier, entered the office, carrying a tray with a dozen bottles of beer on it. All of the bottles and cans were cold and sweating with condensation, the way Americans liked beer, which meant this was not part of the taste testing that went along with being the MOC. Quesnel set the tray on the table near my arm and indicated it, as if telling me to take a pick. “Our Master of the City is pleased to toast your ascension to clan Blood Master. What would you like?”
I pointed to a can of local NOLA Brewing Company beer. The Mecha brew had a red dragon on front that was eating part of the uptown. And then I pointed to the Irish Channel Stout by the same company. Quesnel opened both cans and poured each into a frosted beer glass, the pair of which he placed on the table at my other side. He produced a new glass for Leo and poured the scotch and water. Leo sat back in his chair, examining me in my half-form. There was no distaste or judgment in his eyes; rather, there was that hint of delight.
Leo’s enjoyment of my form fell away, leaving him pensive again. “I have no way to properly toast you, my Jane. The appropriate toast for a new Blood Master of a clan is from the jugular of a virgin boy or girl, with the words ‘Long undeath, prosperity, scions, blood, and cattle.’”
I looked at my beer. “Yeah. Beer is better. And how about ‘Live long and prosper.’”
Leo gave no indication that he found me funny as he lifted his scotch in a toast. Eli followed the example, with his glass. I picked up the Mecha, holding it out and slightly up. Leo repeated my words, “Live long and prosper.” Hearing the Vulcan blessing from Leo’s lips was giggleworthy, but I managed to smother the laugh.
Leo drank and ate a few nuts. Eli and I followed his example. In companionable silence I finished my beer. Then Leo refilled the scotch glasses and pushed my second beer to me. Leo said, “However, I preferQaStaHvIS yIn ‘ej chep.”
I stopped with the beer held in the air, ice water dripping from my fingers. Eli said, “Klingon? You did not just say ‘Live long and prosper’ in Klingon.”
“Oh, but I did. And I do hope that my Jane may live many decades more and prosper greatly.” He held up his free hand in the Vulcan V salute, gave an abbreviated nod, and sipped.
Holy crap. Leo knew aboutStar Trek. A lot aboutStar Trek. Alex would have a cow.
Eyes gleaming, Leo sipped again and I remembered to lower my arm and drink too. Leo said, “I was informed that the white werewolf was biting Joses Santana.”
Finally we were getting to important stuff. “Yeah. And werewolf spit seems to make the SOD less magical. Does he taste different?”
“I have not tasted Joses in recent days,” Leo said, wryly. “I understand that the werecats who attacked us had fed from the Son of Darkness prior to them attacking us in the gym. Were you aware of this?”
I said, “I figured it out. Dominique let them in and destroyed the cameras along the way. We don’t have video footage.”
“Why did Dominique Quessaire betray her sworn oath to Grégoire and to me, after we forgave her trespasses and restored her to us? This has troubled me for...” He rotated a hand as if to say,For a long time.
“Magic, again? Lemon-smelling magic.” Tiredly, I asked, “Does it matter?”
Leo pondered this and then shook his head. “No.”
