my guy. And Derek was merging ten new men into his team, shooters fresh out of combat, honorably discharged, all with nicknames based on tequila drinks, like T. Sunrise, T. Cheek Sneak, T. Grenada, T. Blue Voodoo, T. El Diablo, and T. Firecracker. They were a mixed crew, not all from the same unit, as Derek's Vodka Boys were, but picked from several different units, or whatever the marines called them. I hadn't gotten to know them well enough yet to say what I thought of them, except they probably weren't part of our current stool pigeon problem. "Derek's new guys were in service overseas when we first got our leak back during the Asheville parley. No. It's not someone new, unless our bad guy covered his bases and used some big bad mojo to recruit two former military guys - which would be nigh unto impossible. So, I'm telling you, again, you got a leak in vamp security. You had one in Asheville, and you got one now."
"Noted. You have a mission. Get on it. And see if you can make the security footage of the fight disappear."
Post-9/11 means there are digital cameras at every mom-and-pop airport in the nation. I disconnected. Checked Tory. He was still breathing. I should have left, but I pulled my phone and called Reach.
"Evening again, Paycheck," he said.
"I need to make all the outdoor security footage from Sedona Mountaintop Airport disappear. Review it first and see if you can ID the blood-slaves who just attacked me."
He cursed, and there was a long silence on the other end. Then keys started clacking. "This is going to cost you, Little Janie."
"Yeah, yeah. Bill it to Leo. Can you do it?"
"Yes." The connection ended, but I had no doubt that Reach was ticked off. And maybe worried. If he got caught, it had to be a federal crime.
Security raced in on an electric golf cart, a red light on the top. I started laughing, and the sound had an edge, sharp and caustic. I cut off the laughter. Somehow, Tory was still alive ten minutes later, when the paramedics got there. I slid into the shadows as the real cops showed up, and made my way through the terminal, head down, away from cameras to the ladies' room, where I pulled off the jacket and washed my clothes, drying them under the hand dryer. It didn't take long. I had remarkably little blood on me, but I'd still smell like dinner to any vamp who got a whiff. And here I was, going into the clan home of one. My life was totally out of control. I dropped my weight onto the counter, the edge cutting into my palms. I stared at myself. I was shaking.
I'd just killed a man.
And my lipstick was still in place, vibrant against my coppery Cherokee skin. As if it never happened.
Nausea rose in my throat, but no tears started. My eyes didn't fill. They were glowing Beast-gold. I'd left the pilot and Tory to the cops. The blood-slave I'd tied up and the blood-slave I'd killed. I was a traitor and a coward. I closed my lids and breathed, finding a small calm place inside myself. Though he had attacked me, I offered up a prayer for the spirit of my enemy, Cherokee-style, to the Christian God I had worshipped for all the life I remembered. Wondering if there would come a time when God no longer heard me, or worse, when I no longer prayed. That happened sometimes when one wandered into unfamiliar spiritual areas.
When I opened my eyes again, they were my ordinary amber. I finished cleaning up. Jacket back over my weapons, I smoothed the wisps of black hair that had come free, up into the braid and fighting queue. Straightened the hair sticks. Tugged the jacket. I looked long and lean and fashionably unremarkable. No one noticed me as I exited the terminal, careful to avoid the metal detectors.
The car with my initials in the windshield, written in marker on a piece of white cardboard, was waiting out front, and I slid into the backseat. The driver pulled away but wanted to talk about the appearance of the cops. I looked behind us, as if just noticing them, and said, "Really? Huh." He took that as me not knowing anything, shrugged, and drove into the night.
* * *
The driver, gathering that I wasn't the chatty type, concentrated on the road, for which I was grateful. It