Alistair’s cold eyes flicked to where Einar stood, a silent, looming threat currently flipping a switchblade around the fingers of his left hand. “The federal government may pass. That one has no right to enter.”
Einar smiled, icy blue eyes never blinking in his pale, pale face. “Tremaine is owned by Lucien. I am here as proxy for our master. A piece of paper can’t bar our master’s blood rights.”
“There’s precedent law for that,” Sage added.
“Tremaine has been his own master for centuries. The person you represent has no place here,” Alistair argued.
“Nice thing about being a federal agent with a warrant is that I get a say on who gets access to search. Einar is coming with me,” Patrick said. “Now get the fuck out of my way.”
Alistair stared them down for a couple more seconds before finally stepping aside. The vampires guarding the door didn’t look happy, but no one tried to gut them on the way inside. Strangely enough, Alistair didn’t follow them into the club. Patrick chalked that up to deniability.
The hostess stand was empty, but the neonNo Holy Itemssign burned bright in the flower wall. Past the heaviness of the threshold, Patrick became aware that the club wastoosilent.
“It’s empty,” Sage confirmed when he glanced at her.
The little voice in the back of Patrick’s mind was yellingtrap, trap, trapover and over. The warning was one he didn’t have the luxury of listening to, not if there was a chance any of the people Estelle and Youssef had given up were still alive.
Recognition cut through Patrick’s shields and magic with enough power behind the warning to make his stomach roil.
“It is customary to bring an offering when you meet with me,” an accented voice called from deeper in the club.
Patrick’s hand strayed toward the hilt of his dagger, fingers brushing over the cool metal. He didn’t draw it, but knowing it was there settled his nerves a little. Gesturing for the others to follow, Patrick led them into the heart of the club, eyes skimming over the mostly empty space and all the corners the enemy could hide.
The mezzanine was empty; the dance floor was not. A golden circle had been drawn on the floor with magic, the same one from Saturday night, with its ancient designs that wouldn’t look out of place on a stone temple. No barriers were raised, but that could change in an instant. Placed in the center of the circle was a seat that was more throne, less chair, and claimed by a god.
Tezcatlipoca seemed to favor linen suits that wouldn’t look out of place in the South Side of Miami. The immortal was shirtless beneath his pristine white suit jacket, but his upper torso was hidden by a shining chest piece made out of burnished gold plate that hung from his neck and shoulders. Tezcatlipoca’s long, straight black hair fell loose to his waist, though his head was hidden beneath a gold headdress adorned with obsidian and jade. Colored heron feathers a meter long extended from the headdress in a fan that haloed his head.
A black line edged in yellow was painted across his cheekbones and nose, the color rising almost to his eyes. What was most striking, if not downright chilling, about his appearance wasn’t the headdress but his right foot. While Tezcatlipoca’s bare left foot was flesh and bone, the right was carved from polished obsidian, shiny as a mirror.
Surrounding the Aztec god were humans that weren’t servants, some with magic, some without. Patrick picked out the gang members carrying guns and those with magic burning at their fingertips. Interspaced between them were Manhattan Night Court vampires, their stillness and lack of breath eerie in the dim light of the club.
Seated to Tezcatlipoca’s left was a black jaguar, the kind that had chased Wade into the subway Saturday night. Standing to Tezcatlipoca’s right was Tremaine, who looked far too pleased with himself.
“Think he left one master for another?” Patrick mused.
“The rat has never been capable of fending for himself. Lucien has only been thinking about how best to gift a true death to Tremaine since he fled the Ottoman Empire’s old borders and left his brothers and sisters to die beneath the teeth of religion,” Einar said.
The smug look on Tremaine’s face devolved into one of fury Patrick could see from halfway across the club.
“Aw, I think you hit a nerve. Quick, do it again.”
They moved as far as the golden circle before coming to a stop, the tips of Patrick’s boots mere millimeters from the magic burning on the dance floor. They weren’t safe anywhere in the Crimson Diamond, but he wasn’t about to mess with a god’s power.
“You are trespassing,” Tremaine hissed out.
“It’s not your territory,” Einar shot back.
Tezcatlipoca stroked a hand over the jaguar’s head. “You are mistaken if you believe your master owns anything here.”
“Oh, Lucien owns a fuck ton of shit I’m sure your cartel would love to have,” Patrick replied. “But he doesn’t like sharing. Tremaine, though, pretty sure you can keep him.”
“Speak my name with such disrespect again and you won’t leave this club alive,” Tremaine promised.
“As threats go, I give it a solid two. Lucien still has you beat.”
Tezcatlipoca studied Patrick with a hooded gaze. “Your insolence does you no favors.”
Patrick spread his hands and shrugged. “I’m here at the behest of my government for crimes committed by the Omacatl Cartel. Tremaine is a party to those crimes by knowingly giving you a space to run your fight rings and sell your drugs.”
