Cold Reign (Jane Yellowrock #11)(82)

“I don’t know,” he said. “I need to talk to Brandon and Brian. I’m still . . . new? . . . to the powers of an Onorio.” He pulled the tee into place and slid jeans up his legs and buttoned them. Tight and fitted to his butt. Bruiser had the best butt. And the best nose, Romanesque and proud.

I finished dressing in jeans and rubberized boots and layered tees. And all my weapons. It was daylight, which made us—mostly—safe from vamps, but not humans, though they were far easier to dispatch than vamps.

Kill, I thought, suddenly, stopping in the act of pulling my weapons harness over my shoulders. Not dispatched. Humans weren’t errands. Or targets. They were people, and if they fought for one side or the other it was because they were bound, not free-willed. And I had killed five tonight. There was a time when I’d never have killed a human. New Orleans had changed me. Being around vamps had changed me. Having things, possessions, friends, family had changed me. I now had people in my life worth killing over. Bruiser had changed too, in a positive way, no longer a brainwashed vamp tool, blood-meal, and plaything.

I pulled on an old leather jacket and said, “I’m here if you need me. For anything.”

Bruiser stopped, one hand just about to settle a nine-millimeter into its holster, his eyes finding me in the shadows of early morning. A faint smile touched his lips, lighting his eyes. “You have my heart.”

It wasn’t exactly the three little words, but it was dang close. I wasn’t sure how to respond, but settled on, “You have me. Pretty much all of me since my heart is stuck inside.” Oh crap. Did that last part come out of my mouth? Yes. Of course it did.

He snapped the weapon in place and reached me in one stride, an arm around my back, pulling me close, his body a furnace, his arm like heated steel. He hesitated, his lips hovering above mine, so close. His eyes held me closer, moving back and forth between my own, and his smile spread. His kiss was gentle, as if he had never kissed me before, as if he were unsure, uncertain if I would pull away. Something altered inside me. A thing, something I had no name for, filled me, soft and sweet as jasmine on the night wind.

I slid my arms over his shoulders and pulled myself into him. The kiss deepened and I sighed into his mouth. When he pulled away, we were both breathing harder, and Bruiser was still smiling, a strange light in his eyes. He said, “If your bed weren’t bloody I would have peeled your clothes away and taken you right now.”

“If the floor wasn’t bloody I’d have taken you on the floor.”

Bruiser spluttered with laughter and the moment was broken, though the sweetness remained as he dropped his head and laughed into my shoulder. His hold around me eased. “And that, my darling War Woman, is why you have my heart.”

? ? ?

We were almost back to HQ when I got a call. It was Lee. “Getchur butt to the Council Chambers. An emissary from the Europeans is on the way. There’s two on our shores and they’re headed here, ETA about twelve.”





CHAPTER 15


    A Case of the Cheerfuls



We made it to the back entrance of suckhead command only two minutes before the EV emissaries arrived. Full daylight in the storm was dim and dreary, but it was daylight still, which meant human blood-servants as emissaries, not vamps. They would be someone’s primo blood-servants, which meant vampy protocols had to be followed, though the lack of notice also meant some protocols could be ignored. The difficult part was deciding which protocols might be ignored without accidentally resulting in insult. Deliberate insult was a whole ’nother matter. Vamps were weird.

Leo’s human delegation was gathered in the entry, watching on the security cameras as two human males drove up, parked, and stepped from their two-seater antique vehicle. It was the same two who were trying to come ashore when the Robere twins disappeared to hunt Grégoire. They were clothed in black, with purple shirts and ties, with black umbrellas shielding them from the rain.

Wrassler murmured, “Royal livery. But more important, where in the world did they get a Daimler in New Orleans? George?”

“A 1935 Straight Edge,” Bruiser replied. “And I have no idea.”

I looked at the car on the screens and back and forth between the two males. I had no trouble believing that Bruiser was a luxury car nut, but Wrassler was a surprise. He struck me as more of a sports car kinda guy, or maybe a muscle car from the sixties, basketball and beer, baseball and hot dogs.

Outside, the two humans walked through the storm, up the stairs, and into the airlock with its laminated “bulletproof” polycarbonate glass. They passed through the entrance’s X-ray device, which was part of the security upgrades I had instituted since I came to work for the MOC. The glass had been replaced several times in the months I had been here. “Bulletproof glass” didn’t always offer the protection one might think. The emissaries stopped and, on the X-rays, I got a good look at the weapons they carried—plenty—and at the men themselves. Beside me, Bruiser talked with Raisin, the oldest human living at HQ, on the in-house coms system.

Bruiser muttered two names to her, with a vaguely Spanish accent. “Macario and Gualterio. I’d have expected minions, not the big guns.”

They were both short by today’s standards, at five-six and five-eight. Both had dark hair and deeply olive skin. Both were dressed in black wool suits that dropped to gorgeous shoes—Italian leather buffed to a shine. They were also armed to the teeth with blades and sidearms, though no one would know that by looking at them. Their clothing was so perfectly tailored that not a bulge showed. Once I had a good look, I stepped into the shadows so they couldn’t see me in the bright foyer lights.