claims that Renee Damours of Rousseau Clan found sanity before the purge, and her brother Tristan not long after. Their children weren't so lucky." Bruiser must have seen my reaction. "Yeah, Tristan was her brotherand her husband. The breeding program wasn't just practiced on their master's slaves. Rumor persists that two of their children and another brother are still among the long-chained, alive, somewhere."
"These children. They'd be how old?"
Bruiser showed his teeth at me and saluted with his coffee cup. "Three hundred years, give or take a few decades."
Back in the city, I stopped at the house and called Jodi Richoux. "What, Yellowrock?"
she said as she picked up. "I'm up to my ass in blood at the moment."
Which sounded like one of my worst days, but I didn't sympathize. I filled her in on the situation. She didn't deny when I suggested that she'd been investigating the witch children's disappearance herself after her aunt had died. "I need back into the woo-woo room, and I have pertinent info to trade for it," I said. "The Rousseau clan home is empty, open, and looks as if there's been a fight inside. George Dumas says the security was breached at two a.m. It has something to do with a vamp war brewing."
Jodi cursed. "I could have gone all year without hearing any of that. I'm working a gang murder in the Warehouse District. Crips took down a handful of MS 13 leaders and two vamps, a massacre that might be tied into your vamp war. Woo-woo room is open for you anytime, but be there at five to decompress and reorganize." She hung up.
I blew out a breath. Southerners were supposed to be polite. So far, I wasn't seeing it here. Rick returned my call and I asked to see the vamp files again. I needed to go back and find everything they had on the Rousseau clan. When he asked why, I gave him the same spiel I'd given Jodi and he said to come on in. I had free access. Lucky me.
Without taking time for a shower or a nap, I grabbed a few things I might need, hopped back on Bitsa, and gunned the motor for NOPD. Sleep pulled at me as I rode. I needed rest, but I couldn't stop. Not until the kits were safe.
"How about you leave me the keys this time? Or prop the door open with a chair?" I shoved one of the little plastic chairs across the dull floor tiles with a screech.
Rick smiled and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, effectively blocking the only exit, crossed his arms, and gave me his best bad boy grin. If I hadn't been worried over the kits - thechildren , for pity's sake - I might have been appreciative. I blew hair out of my face and fisted my hands on my hips. "What?"
"How long since you slept? You look like sh - really tired."
"Gee, thanks. You sure do know how to make a girl feel pretty."
"Pretty you're not. Interesting, yes. Intriguing, yes. Pretty is too . . ." He scrunched up his face, thinking, looking at the faded ceiling tiles. "Too soft for you."
All of a sudden the anger that had fueled my body in place of sleep escaped in one huge irate sigh. And because there was nothing else underneath the rage, supporting it, giving me strength, I burst into tears.
When I came up for air, I was sitting on the table leaning into Rick, my face buried in his chest, my tears soaked through to his skin. Which smelled really wonderfully good.
Faint shirt starch, aftershave, Ivory soap, gun oil, and man. I tightened my fingers on his jacket, not wanting to let go. It was stupid and girly and . . . But I felt safe for the first time in . . . well, a long time. His hands made wide circles on my back and shoulders, massaging me through my shirt. I settled my face on his shoulder, not wanting to look up. Not wanting him to see me. I was an ugly crier. Red nose, snot, puffy eyes, ick.
"Sorry." My voice was rough with tears. I cleared it and tried again. "Sorry I got your shirt wet." Rick eased me back. When he could see me, I realized that the bad boy image was temporarily gone and something deeper, richer, was in its place. A strange feeling, prickling like fur, danced down my spine, expectant, waiting.