Into my boot holster went a six-round Kahr P380, a small semiautomatic with a matte black finish. It was loaded with standard ammo. Under my right arm, low on my chest, I wore my H&K nine-millimeter, loaded with nonsilver hollow-point rounds that would explode on impact. If I missed a center-mass kill shot, I'd maim an attacker, even a vamp. I inspected the weapon. I hadn't cleaned it, which was stupid, but I'd only emptied one clip, so the guilt wasn't particularly intense. Extra clips went onto my belt, under the velvet jacket.
My shotgun, a Benelli M4 Super 90, was slung over my back, belted on top of my jacket, the grip within easy reach over my shoulder. It was loaded for vamp with hand-packed silver-flechette rounds that would work on human antagonists too. I carried one silver cross in my belt, hidden under my jacket, and stakes, secured in loops at my jeans-clad thighs. My braided hair was twisted around my head in a crown that would be hard to grab. Hip-length hair was a handle in a fight, and I had been advised to cut it long ago. It was the only suggestion by all of my senseis that I had ever ignored. I shoved silver stakes into the crown and stepped from the sleeping quarters just as a stranger placed a two-pound steak on the small table.
He froze when he saw me. He was wearing the white shirt and black pants of the company Leo used for his part-timers, the patches on his shirt naming him Chris, the new first mate. Lovely. Now I had a flyboy pilot who might be an enemy and a first mate who might be his partner. I didn't think Leo was trying to kill me anymore, but one never knew. He swallowed before he asked, "M-M-Miss Yellowrock?"
I slid in front of the steak and dropped the napkin across my lap, picked up the knife and fork, and closed my eyes. The prayer lasted half a heartbeat. I wasn't leaving my eyes closed for any reason. I cut into the steak and chewed, and then broke my own rule with a groan and a gourmand's closed eyes. Holy crap, it was good. Three bites later I looked up and remembered the first mate had spoken. Around a mouthful of steak I said, "Hi, Chris. I'm Jane. Good steak. I may have to marry you."
He swallowed and turned back to the kitchen, but I heard him murmur, "It'd be like sleeping with a scorpion." Which I thought was very funny, and almost told him so, but he was bringing me tea, and the steak was so good that I wanted to be nice. I ate the whole thing, plus the sauteed mushrooms and grilled zucchini he set on the side. Delicious. Ten minutes after I finished the meal, I was on my way, without ever seeing Flyboy Dan.
* * *
It was still an hour before sunset when I got to the clan home of the Master of the City of Seattle. The house - okay, it was a mansion, but my standards had changed the longer I worked in close proximity to vamps - now I called it a house and didn't feel like an impostor when the driver pulled up out front. The clan home was a hundred years old, three stories, brick, stucco, and wood on an acre of land, lakefront. It had heavily landscaped grounds and a circular drive off Lake Washington Boulevard, and all the houses near it were mansions too. I had no idea about property values, but I was guessing two mil easy. I gathered my things and stopped, dragging my eyes back to the Seattle Clan Home. Something wasn't - The lack jumped out at me. No security, no armed blood-servants patrolling. Not even a gardener on the grounds. The place looked deserted. My shoulders tightened as I got out, slung the blood-collecting bag over one shoulder, and closed the door. "You're waiting, right?" I said to the taxi driver.
"You're not a hit man, right?"
"Right. Just a bodyguard, applying for a job." Liar, liar, pants on fire.
"I'll wait unless I hear gunfire. Then I'm outta here."
"Fair enough. Thanks for the phone," I said, tucking it in my pocket. He had brought me a new one - no bells or whistles, but at least in one piece and functioning - on the orders of Leo. Having learned my lesson, I had another in my back pocket.