Brute was a huge werewolf, and his face wore a snarl I had never seen before, full of menace and hatred. I shut my mouth. If I begged, Ed was dead. I knew it, somehow, deep inside at a cellular level. It was there in Brute’s eyes. In the emptiness of my soul. I forced myself to breathe. Gripped the arm of the recliner. Steadied my thoughts. Pulled a hard-learned formality around me like an insulated cloak.
Ed’s suffering trailed away, to leave only the sound of my vampire gasping for breath. I knew what kind of punishment it took for a powerful vamp to need to gasp like that. Ed. My Ed. The enemy was hurting my Ed. He would die for that.
CHAPTER 3
Acting Enforcer to the Dark Queen
Brute’s growl was a rumbling vibration of threat. Slowly, I placed a hand on the white werewolf’s head. His fur was cold. He had been outside in the night air and had come running. Brute fell silent, but his eyes never left the phone in Bruiser’s hand, a crystal blue gaze of death. The grindylow crawled up his spine and sat on Brute’s neck, holding on, gripping tufts of white fur. The neon green creature chittered softly, watching me. I was still pretty sure it was Pea, but all the magical critters in the U.S. came from the same litter and were identical. I scratched Brute’s head and behind his ears. He whined softly and pressed against my hand.
When Ed could speak again, his voice was rough but still held the stilted tones of the one who was . . . what? Possessing him? “Your servant means so little to you?” the caller asked, sounding amused.
Bruiser said, “The Dark Queen has retired for the season. She will consider your . . . invitation”—his tone making it clear he didn’t consider it such—“and return your call.” Bruiser ended the call.
My heart hammered against my ribs, an uneven cadence. All my energy drained away in a gushing flood of defeat. Closing my eyes, I drooped back into the chair. Hugging my middle. Rocking slightly. Pain thrummed through me with my pulse.
Alex said, “The call originated in Jacksonville, Florida. Running search-and-location programs, checking cameras near his GPS coordinates.” His fingers were flying across the keys, staccato, relentless.
Someone, I assumed Bruiser, covered me with the blanket. The room was silent except for Alex’s ubiquitous tapping. When I got the guts to open my eyes, it was to see Bruiser and Eli standing at my chair, watching me. “The Flayer of Mithrans has Ed,” I said, redundant. Useless. But I needed to say the words.
“Yes,” Bruiser said.
“Do you want to go back to NOLA to deal with this, Janie?” Eli asked.
“No.” I sat up and looked around, unfocused, thinking. “In New Orleans, there’s thousands of people to be collateral damage. A city full of them.” I looked at Eli. “What about here, at the inn?”
“Strategically and tactically, against an old-world fanghead with fifty followers, traveling in stealth, unlikely to have the means to transport modern warfare on this continent, or to know how to obtain it on foreign soil, this location is as good as any.” His tone was cool, his words clipped, analyzing, offering no opinion or personal input. Battle face. Battle persona. “Unlikely doesn’t mean impossible, however. Here, we have high ground, easy exit through the tunnel, off-the-grid options for power and water, sufficient supplies, good positions for shooters and cameras, and no collateral liability. You can warn Molly away.”
“Shimon Bar-Judas is a powerful sorcerer,” Bruiser said. “We could use magical assistance and Molly could use the protection. She hasn’t hidden her light and power under a basket, and her name was quite public at the Sangre Duello. Finding her would be within the ability of almost anyone. She should have the option of staying here and fighting with us, versus her family being alone in their hilltop home.”
“Here then,” I said. “Issue the invitation to the fangheads. Then let’s get ready to whoop some undead ass.”
No one laughed at the idea of me—all hundred and twenty pounds of cancer-ridden me—kicking ass. Eli grinned at me, all teeth. Alex whispered, “Yessss.” Bruiser hit RECALL and the rings sounded in the quiet room.
“This is the telephone speaker for the Flayer of Mithrans, the Darkness of Souls,” a heavily accented voice answered Ed’s cell.
“This is Onorio, George Dumas, formerly primo to Leo Pellissier of New Orleans. I speak for the Dark Queen. She is in Asheville, in