Except for the kiddos, the tension in the TV room could have been cut with the blade of a sword. I didn’t know where the invading fangheads were. Alex hadn’t found the Flayer. Eli was running out of weapons to prep. It was the vamping hour...Crap.
I went to my suite and pulled out all my fighting gear and lined it all up on the bed. There was a lot of stuff. Of the fighting leathers provided by Leo, none had survived the many duels and battles and... Dang. The holes in the white leathers and the black leathers were significant and bloody and they still stank, even after Eli had cleaned the leather.
I tossed the ruined, holey whites and blacks into the corner and pulled out the big box containing the armor Eli had ordered. The smell when I opened the box wasn’t leather; it was vaguely chemical, sharp and bitter. The set on top wasn’t the camo I expected, but was scarlet. Not as flamboyant as Leo’s but made with military armor, Kevlar, Dyneema, and a layer of anti-magic.
The scarlet armor could be adjusted to fit the broad shoulders and narrow hips of my half-form perfectly. My old boots were still perfect on my paw-feet—not because the cold bothered me, but because I was tired of digging ice balls out from under my claws.
To go with the scarlet armor, I laid out the two gorgets to protect my throat: one gorget made of titanium overlaid with silver, and the more decorative, repaired, gold gorget set with citrines. I laid out the gold arm cuffs shaped like snakes, which had once belonged to a redheaded vamp who just would not die. When she finally was beheaded, and stayed dead, and Bethany died, I had ended up with the bracelets. The cuffs would be loose on my wrists, having been made for a woman’s upper arms, and they no longer contained magic of any kind, but theylookedmagical. I had thirteen wood stakes, thirteen silver stakes, and three glass vials of expired holy water—not that any vamp would know it was old. I had a boot box full of magazines loaded with lead-silver rounds and regular rounds. I had the double shoulder holster, a hip rig with a nine-mil and sheaths for the stakes. I had a sword sheath with a double-bladed flat sword for blood duels. I laid out three throwing knives. There was the Mughal blade in its red velvet sheath, my sword of office, a blade that came with a long history and a prophecy that the wearer would not die in battle, or some such nonsense. The Mughal blade was a gift from Bruiser.
I hadle breloque. It glimmered a soft gold against the gray coverlet.
The Glob, with the Blood Diamond and the sliver of the Blood Cross, the iron of spikes of Golgotha, witch magics, and my own flesh cooked into it by lightning. It was an ugly, fist-sized weapon. I had used it to protect others and myself, but I had no idea if that was all that I could do with it.
I laid out all of Molly’s trinkets, witchy amulets given to me over the years. There was a tinyhedge of thornscaptured in a small amulet. There were witchy locks that usually went on my bastardized Harley. There were other, less powerful things I had used over the years. And therewas the bone earring carved like a coyote, the earring that had appeared in my stash after a night of really bad dreams. Molly hadn’t made it. It just... appeared. Presto. Like magic. Good magic. Safe magic. I smiled at the thought. Bruiser, still quiet, had been sitting in the small chair in the corner, watching me lay out my toys, his eyes hooded with grief. He lost Leo. He expected to lose me because I was still dying, albeit more slowly. And his grief and malaise were like a cheese grater on my nerves. I wanted to kick him, but that seemed really unkind and unproductive.
I set the armor and amulets on the bed and said, “Dude. I think all that advice about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and just getting over pain or guilt or abandonment is hogwash. But wallowing in the filth of your own past isn’t helpful either. The things you went through don’t own you. You own them. What you do with them, how you survive, whether you survive what was done, is up to you. I love you, but you have to make a decision. Give up or fight.”
“Leo’s fight?”
“Leo’s gone. It’s our fight now. Who cares who started the battle as long as we finish it?”
Bruiser’s eyes went narrow in thought. I left the gear strewn across the big bed and returned to the TV room. On the way down in the elevator, I received a text from Jodi Richoux, the cop in NOLA who had the heart of the elder Son of Darkness. Attached was a photo of the heart. There was some sort of mass on the side and things were sticking out of the heart itself, like arteries and veins. It wasn’t showing any signs of rot—not at all. It was still gross. Below the photo were the wordsIs safe in a Null Room. Shape and color suggests lung and blood vessels are growing. No sign of decomposition. Lachish Dutillet is in null room next door. She says to burn it. Witch council is considering.
I studied the heart. If it could regrow the entire body, which had been posited, it would have all the power but none of the memories, none of the learning or training. It would be a mindless vessel for the FOM to use as hewanted, until the body and brain developed new memories and personal will to go with the new physical life.
I detoured to the back of the house, following my Beast-nose, and found Brute, who was now curled up on a bed with EJ and Angie Baby, the infant between them, and a neon green Grindylow resting over the wolf’s back. At some point in the last few minutes, the kids had been put down for naps—with a three-hundred-pound werewolf nanny. And Big Evan had to be okay with it. They were on his bed.
The paranormal creatures were alert, watching me in the doorway, so I waggled my fingers at Brute, asking him to come with me. He slowly untangled himself from the small bodies and left them asleep as he gingerly stepped to the floor. Pea, the grindy, held on to his white fur. In the hallway I showed the resident werewolf the photo of the heart. Brute licked his lips and chuffed at me, recognizing the heart.
“Yeah,” I said. “Leftovers. It’s regrowing. What happens when there’s a full-grown body and brain to go with the heart?”
Brute tilted his head to the side in question.
“Could the Flayer of Mithrans use his brother’s body and magic to make his own stronger?”
Brute’s ruff stood on end and he growled softly. His crystal blue eyes narrowed and he held my gaze in a very nonwolf, nondominant stare.
“That’s what I thought.” I should never have given the heart away. Brute should have eaten it all and then we wouldn’t have this danger. Brute turned and crawled up onto the bed. He curled around Angie, put a paw against the baby’s side, and lay his heavy head on EJ’s hips. The grindylow crawled around his shoulders and neck and snuffled in close. Brute blew out a breath and closed his eyes. He really was in protect mode. I had no idea what the wolf thought about the baby witches he was protecting, but I figured an angel-blessed wolf wasn’t the worst creature to have as a guardian. EJ curled his chubby fists in the white fir and held on in his sleep. Angie Baby snored softly, her breath puffing into the white fur. “You keep them safe,” I whispered. “No matter what.”
The wolf didn’t answer but his ears twitched to show me he had heard.
I turned and found myself nose-to-chest with Big Evan. I looked up. “Umm. Hi?”
Evan grinned at me through his thick red beard. “It’s dark. Vampire time. Edmund wants to talk to you,” Evan said.
Molly, half-hidden behind his bulk, grabbed my sleeve and tugged me away from the doorway. “We want to talk to you first. About my death magics.”
“No.”
“No what?” Molly asked her eyes narrowing. People didn’t tell the volatile redhead she couldn’t do stuff.
“You can’t use them to drain the vampires,” I said, hearing the stubborn tone in my voice. “You can’t guarantee you can stop draining, and you might take some of our people.” I thumbed to the bedroom doorway. I didn’t bring up Beast’s assertion that she could act as familiar for Molly. I didn’t know what would happen if we got busy and took our attention off Molly. She could kill everyone around her. I wasn’t risking her or the kids. Or my clan. “Or some of your people. Like your kids.”
Molly’s eyes flared brighter. “We have to—”
“And why are you letting them sleep with a werewolf?” I accused, deflecting her. “Are you nutso?” Yeah. Accuse her of being a bad mother. Get her mind off her death—
Molly punched me. Hard.
