Cold Reign (Jane Yellowrock #11)(20)
I’d been even more delighted that we’d shared a bottle of sweet Fuzzy Navel wine with po’boys from Coop’s Place, curled up together on his gallery. It had been a magical night, so much so that I’d shared a few tidbits from my own youth.
I’d talked about Bobby, the sweet little boy I’d befriended and taken under my wing in the children’s home when the other kids picked on him. Had admitted that the phrase taken under my wing was synonymous for beating up several kids who abused him physically or verbally. Admitted that I had practically broken the record for time spent in detention. Bruiser said he found my stories and me “delightful.” And then he had proceeded to kiss along my throat and up to my ear. I’d never been called delightful. I was pretty sure it gave me the quakes.
The next morning I had woken to find a pair of boxing gloves on the pillow beside me, ancient gloves that smelled of sweat and blood and time. They had been his from the same year he drank wine. Now I had them hanging off one of the short posts at the head of my bed, and I fell asleep at night smelling Bruiser even when he wasn’t there.
And now he loved me more than bacon.
That was more lovey-dovey talk than we had said to each other ever. Preceded by BACON complementary mugs, that was, like, practically the magical three words. Almost, I love you. Or maybe even better, because the magical phrase was just a statement of fact without qualifiers. This was more than bacon.
I sipped my tea. He sipped his. He loved me more than bacon. I loved him more than bacon. He wasn’t disappointed with me for binding Edmund. He didn’t worry about me out in Beast form hunting killer vamps; he knew I had the skills to take care of myself. He made me tea and cookies and cute little sandwiches just because.
Life couldn’t get much better than this.
? ? ?
Around 3:30 a.m. Bruiser took a call and kissed me on the cheek before he left my house. I checked on Eli, who was sleeping with a happy smile on his face. He didn’t wake when I walked up the stairs. He didn’t wake and shoot me when I leaned over him to check his breathing. The former Ranger was out cold, sleeping deeply, with good dreams, for the first time since we met. This seemed like a good thing. I should make him drink vamp blood more often.
Because I was the only protection tonight, which felt odd after so many months with the Youngers living here, I checked the house doors, made sure there was a round in the chamber of the weapon by my bed, and crawled between the sheets. The warm scent of Bruiser on his boxing gloves lulled me into dreams.
? ? ?
What felt like only minutes later, I woke to the echo of a deep, reverberating growl. I took a slow, still breath, parsing the scents. Someone was in the house. In my room. Two someones. I smelled werewolf and Anzu: Brute, the white were stuck in wolf form, and Girrard DiMercy, who looked human but was not. And magic. I pulled on Beast-speed. In a single move I rolled from the mattress, throwing off the sheets, picked up the nine-mil, and bent my knees into a shooting stance. The sheets were still in the air when I off-safetied and pointed the weapon at the location of the scents. The entire move took maybe half a second.
They stopped, frozen in place like a bizarre tableau in a wax museum. Gee was holding his sword to the werewolf’s throat. Brute was snarling. My closet door was open. So was the side door, and a fine rain was blowing in, filling the house with icy, wet mist. Both doors had been closed when I fell asleep.
Beast’s night vision turned everything into bright silvers and greens and whites. More than enough to see that Gee was wearing all black, with a black kerchief over the lower part of his face. And a brimmed hat. And a black lace shirt with cuffs that hung dripping. He was dressed like a cat burglar/sword master from some Renaissance romance novel. Dramatic, as always. But the sword, that was real. And he knew how to use it.
“It’s loaded with standard ammo. Lead won’t kill you, Gee,” I said, my voice casual, “but it’ll hurt.”
Gee slowly turned his head to me and pulled down the kerchief to expose his face. Brute kept his predator’s stare on the small, pretty man and growled again, a deep, low vibration that I could feel through the floor and the soles of my bare feet. The wolf wasn’t sopping but wasn’t totally dry either. He’d been here a while. The soaked man was the interloper. “So here’s what I think happened,” I continued, taking in the condition of the house beyond my door. “An hour or so ago, Brute came in through the wolf-door panel Eli installed, because Brute belongs here. Sometimes. Gee does not, but you came by anyway. And then you cast a sleepy-time spell of some sort over the house and walked in. Brute, who for some were-taint reason didn’t succumb to the spell, caught you walking into my house and going through my closet.”
“You have that which belongs to me.” He was talking about a magical item I had confiscated from a big honking witch-versus-vampire fight in a little town west of New Orleans. It looked like a laurel-leafed crown, and it was a powerful amulet. That was about all I knew, but that was enough for me to keep it out of the hands of anyone who wanted it.
“Nope. It may belong to the Anzus as a group or to one or the other of you, but le breloque is mine until I discover its true and full provenance and powers. Put down your pin sticker and step away from the closet. I really don’t want more blood on my floors tonight. I intend to collect on that boon you owe me from way back and don’t want to fritter it away by accidentally killing you.”