his lap. He was wearing a tiny gold pinky ring, and he was the picture of elegance, marred only by the compact handgun under his arm.
Eli took the seat facing backward, and was wearing button jeans, scuffed combat boots, and a skintight T, with a shoulder holster, an ankle holster, and probably three or four blades concealed on him somewhere. A wrinkled denim jacket lay on the seat near him. All in black. He looked dangerous and in control. Yet, in a hand-to-hand fight, Bruiser would win. Despite his casual and relaxed demeanor, he was full of vamp blood. He'd be faster, stronger, meaner, and though I'd never fought Bruiser - except the first time I ever saw him, when I'd gotten the drop on him - he'd had a hundred years to practice martial arts, and I was betting he fought like he danced. Perfectly balanced, and totally in control.
As we pulled away from the curb, Bruiser swiveled his head to me. And looked at the floor. Reminding me of the times we had landed on a limo floor. And almost done something I'd likely never regret. I tilted my head and slammed down hard on the blush that wanted to rise. Eli looked back and forth between us, taking in everything and drawing his own conclusions.
Fortunately, before I could feel too uncomfortable, Eli reached for the remote and turned on the television to Fox. The two men started into a discussion of politics and I closed my eyes and feigned sleep as we hit the road out of New Orleans.
The surfaces of most major highways in Louisiana are horrible, composed of concrete with expansion joints every ten feet or so. The joints rose in the heat of summer and stayed deformed forever, creating a rocking, bumpy ride, noisy and unpleasant even in the limo. But for me, it felt soothing, like a rocking chair, and my fake sleep quickly turned into real sleep. We were rolling into Natchez when I woke and I stretched, touching my mouth to make sure I hadn't drooled in my sleep.
I didn't know much about the town. Natchez, named after the tribe of Indians sold into slavery by the Europeans, was the first major Mississippi port city north of New Orleans, and had once been a major hub of steamboat travel and trade. It had been a bigger place before the war - the Civil War - and had struggled to hang on since. union troops hadn't burned it to the ground, and after the war ended, Natchez had been left with swamp, forest, bayous, a checkered and notorious past - all set high upon a bluff above the Mississippi. It also had lots of fancy, prewar buildings, antebellum homes, churches, graveyards, and old live oak trees swathed in moss. After the war, the town also had hundreds of freed slaves needing work and carpetbaggers by the dozens bringing in an influx of cash. Its location and history allowed it to survive and thrive when most other towns around the South had suffered.
Natchez was rife with gossip. The locals knew everything. When we stopped for gas, Wrassler chatted up a local girl working inside behind the counter. In minutes, he'd learned most everything that had happened to the town in the last twenty years. Back in the limo, Wrassler moved his massive bulk into the car, shut the door, and said, "You were right, Kid." To the rest of us, he said, "De Allyon has been hiding in plain sight here, having taken over from the local MOC, Hieronymus - who owes Leo allegiance and loyalty and who did not call his boss to report the presence of an enemy." He started the limo and pulled into the street. "Funny how Leo's research guy didn't know any of this. Not you, Kid," he said to Alex, "but that other guy the master uses."
I laid my head back on the leather upholstery and thought about our leak. Leaks. Whatever. Not only was someone sharing info with our enemy, but our own intel sources had left us high and dry on what was happening in Leo's organization. That needed to be addressed, eventually, once this crisis was over. With vamps, there was always something.* * *
As for this little out-of-town gig, the possibility that there was more than one leak - Angel Tit and a snitch in Leo's camp - came back and perched in the forefront of my brain, like a buzzard