Halfway there, Sandrine comes sprinting out of the kitchen, arms pumping, knives already out and gleaming in the morning light. The sight would be comical if not because she moves fast and low, a flash of black and pale skin, hair whipping behind her like a streamer. This is how she earned her nickname; she’s all reflex and muscle, a barely contained explosion of violence in the guise of a bored grad student.
As she races past me, I see the abomination attached to her shoulder: Buzz, her personal mutant bug. He’s a mutant in the truest sense, and even after all this time, he gives me the creeps. He latches deeper into Sandrine as she accelerates, and I wonder, not for the first time, what it would be like to have a symbiote that actually respects personal space.
They make it to the pool house in under ten seconds, and I follow at a more dignified pace, heels now echoing in the sudden silence. The rest of the household is, predictably, oblivious. No one comes to help, or even observes, which is just as well. I don’t want an audience for whatever fresh humiliation is about to unfold.
The door to the bug house is ajar, and there’s a faint trail of muddy footprints leading inside. Sandrine pauses, knives at the ready, head tilted like she’s listening for something. Buzz detaches and scurries up the wall, disappearing into the gloom. I hang back, keeping a safe distance—if there’s trouble, it’s better to let the cat take the first hit. I’m not stupid.
There’s a crash inside, followed by the unmistakable sound of terrified screaming. Not human, or at least not entirely. I see Sandrine leap through the doorway, blade glinting, body language taut with anticipation. There’s a scuffle, a tumble of shapes, and then a silence broken only by the occasional slap of an errant insect against the glass.
I count to five, then follow. The humidity is oppressive. I make my way through the tangle of ferns and carnivorous plants, stepping over puddles and avoiding the vines that droop from the ceiling. By the time I reach the center of the room, Sandrine has subdued the intruder—a small, wriggling shape pinned against the dirt floor—and is interrogating it in low, menacing tones.
It’s one of the clones, or at least a knockoff thereof created by Victor.
“Don’t kill anyone until we know what’s going on, for vodka’s sake!”
My heels click as I walk across the patio, annoyed beyond the telling of it. The alarms don’t go off for random vermin. They’re set specifically, so this is some idiot sneaking in from the back to do some foolish prank or damage. Either pisses me off because I have a schedule and now we’re going to get behind.
It’s rude and unacceptable.
When I walk around the back of the bug shed, I find Sandrine holding Heather and her droid Chance by the scruffs of their necks. Her expression is murderous, and I can only assume by her scantily clad leather attire that the alarm has interrupted something I don’t want to know about with our resident chef and subbie.
“What in the name of Dolce and Gabbana are you doing here?”
Heather blinks at me, looking sheepish, and Chance smirks. I could smack the grin right off him, but that won’t accomplish anything. “Hiya, Queen P. Nice to see you again.”
“Knock it off. Why are you here sneaking around Mercury’s bug hut?” Sandrine growls, looking ready to explode right here. Perhaps they interrupted a very crucial moment in her sex-capades.
“Funny story, that. We thought we might slip in early for the party, you see. Then we’d get the best guest room. I like the one at the end of the hall?—”
I roll my eyes. “Both of my legs are fine at the length they already are. No need to stretch one. Neither of you is dressed for the party.” My eyes slide over them, and I arch a brow. “At least, I hope to hell not.”
Heather looks down at her messy sweats and a dirty tee shirt, face turning red. Chance shrugs, giving me that grin that the fangy boys used to charm the humans.
Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t work on me. I have the right body parts, but I lack the soft spot for their shenanigans that the other ladies have. “Well?”
“We hoped the guys could help. My lady’s hopeless with that stuff. Her head is buried in a book, not a fashion mag.”
Sandrine snorts and rolls her eyes. “Ever heard of a phone call?”
He grins and tilts his head. “Look at you all grown up and growly little sis. It’s been a minute, and here you are, as ill-tempered and explosive as the rest of us, even without a pair of pointies to back it up.”
Her eyes narrow, and I smile.
Oh, he has made an error with that remark.
While he and the other boys created my cohort in crime here, and she’s not made from a fanged fiend template as most of the males are, she is not to be trifled with. None of us ladies are as they may vary our templates, but we’re all vicious and smart in different ways with powers that the males don’t have. She’s going to tear him a new one.
The flash of one of her knives draws my attention as she drops Heather in an ungainly heap. Hoisting Chance off the ground until his face is an inch from hers, she holds the point of the stiletto to the tip of his nose. “If you think you can take me, step on up. Otherwise, knock off the testosterone.”
Chance is still smirking until Buzz crawls over her shoulder and clicks his mandibles, making a hissing sound that is downright terrifying. I don’t know what the hell Mercury cross-bred that spider with, but it’s the size of a purse dog and whatever it’s getting ready to do, I don’t want to see.
He pales, and Sandrine smirks this time, tossing him aside as if he weighs the same as a feather. “I thought not.”
“Look, you two. We’re busy setting up for tomorrow. That’s enough of this nonsense. Go in through the backdoor with your stuff and find your room. There’s a dry erase board on every door for people to label who is where, so we don’t have any mix-ups unless they’re intentional.”
Heather nods, grabbing her bag, and Chance does the same. They walk across the patio, muttering to one another.
“Hey!” Sandrine shouts, watching them like a hawk. “No pranks! Until the party starts, no messing with anything that will screw up all our hard work, you ninnies!”
