Cold Reign (Jane Yellowrock #11)(122)
We shared baskets of wings, bruschetta with a half dozen kinds of toppings, hummus with flatbread, spinach dip and chips, small burger sliders, house-made Parmesan cheese with hot peppers, and little pizzas. I wasn’t too full to enjoy, my metabolism still high and my appetite higher.
And when the band returned to the stage, I took the opportunity to go to the ladies’ room—not something I’d take for granted again. I heard the song start, the music piped into the restroom, the lead singer’s raspy voice singing, “I used to be the spark. I could always start a fire in your heart.”
I smoothed my hair back into the French braid. Tucked the blue stone into my cleavage—what there was of it—with the gold nugget. I looked good and for once I knew it. I stretched my lips and reapplied scarlet lipstick.
Over the speakers, the singer crooned, “Our love was so hot, so hot . . .” In the background, over the speakers, a saxophone started playing. The notes low, plaintive. Familiar.
My hand, holding the lipstick, froze. Dropped away from my face. The tube fell and clattered to the countertop. I pushed through the door and out into the poorly lit hallway. And around to the dance floor.
“Didn’t think you would ever stop, carrying my flame, but baby, something’s changed.”
The saxophone player was wearing black, a long-sleeved, nearly see-through T-shirt and black jeans. Black hair hung over his face. Too long. Unkempt. Frenchy-black eyes closed.
“Where’s the fire that was in your eyes whenever you were close to me,” the lead singer sang. “Where’s the fire? don’t you realize, just how much you mean to me?”
Rick’s eyes opened above the sax and found me, instantly, standing in the shadows, his eyes gleaming the green of his cat. “Where’s the fire, baby? Why are you so cold? Where’s the fire, baby . . .”
The song. Had been written for me? For us? The look in his eyes said yes. “Don’t try to tell me everything’s all right. Just tell me. Where’s the fire tonight?”
Eli appeared at my side. “He knows what he did, Babe. I think this is an apology. As public as he could make it.”
Bruiser stepped out from behind my partner. He held out his hand. “May I have this dance, love?” I put my hand into his heated one. His palm and strength centered me. I let him lead me to the dance floor. He enfolded me, holding me close, my face pressed into his shoulder, arms around me, keeping me safe. All the while, the lyrics of love lost sang into the bar.
“Where’s the fire that was in your eyes whenever you were close to me? Where’s the fire? Don’t you realize, just how much you mean to me?”
Bruiser and I danced to the song of heartbreak and lost love. When it was over, I looked up. Rick LaFleur was gone.
CHAPTER 22
Shove It Up Your Royal Ass
We were called to vamp HQ just before dawn, with orders to run by the house first and pick up a few items. Leo offered assurances that we would be allowed to leave with everything we brought, so I agreed, though with misgivings. Bruiser was now wearing all his weapons. I was weaponed up and also carrying two magical items, the Glob hidden in a pocket and le breloque in my hand. Laden with the belongings we had been ordered to bring, Bruiser and I stood before Leo’s office like supplicants or children at the principal’s office. Scrappy, who had led us in, as if we needed to be shown the way, knocked and opened the door.
We entered.
The smell of Leo—papyrus and ink and black pepper—hung strong on the air. We heard a tapping, as if on a laptop, soft but unsteady, and I remembered the damage to Leo’s hand. The furniture was back in its place, businesslike instead of raunchy-orgy-ménage à trois–like. Leo was sitting behind his desk, dressed in casual clothes, things I thought he probably slept in when he wasn’t doing sex and blood—thin knit black pants with a loose long-sleeved shirt. His hair was back in a short queue, looking as if it had been trimmed again. The Master of the City was pale and was wearing slippers, but he was upright and working.
He stopped typing and indicated the two wingback chairs, his fingers still taped in place where they were reattaching. Bruiser and I sat, the magical crown on my lap, out in clear view. It felt weird to have it exposed this way, but Leo didn’t even glance at it.
It wasn’t silent in the office. Soft instrumental music, piano and violin, Vivaldi maybe, played on the speakers in each corner, surround sound rising and falling to low ebbs. Leo leaned across the table he used as a desk and rested his chin in his hands, studying us over the short distance. One piece ended and another began before he spoke. “I did not know if you would come,” he said to Bruiser.
“You are no longer my master, but you are the master of this city,” Bruiser said, formally. But then he added, “And you are the best master I could imagine. You always have been. Even in the midst of madness and misery and pain, you have put your people first. I honor that now and always.”
Leo looked down, but I thought I caught a hint of surprise and tenderness in his eyes before they were shuttered. He tilted his head in acknowledgment. His lips curled up slightly. “You may wish otherwise soon. My plans are all for naught,” he admitted. “Two centuries of moves and countermoves, wasted.” He lifted his eyes to me. “You took Adrianna’s head?”