Broken Soul

I Haven’t Slept with You Yet

Del opened a pink file on the table in front of her. “Since you told me about the raptor tattoos, I’ve been refreshing myself on the Mithran named Peregrinus, and will begin with his sire, Le Bâtard.

“Le Bâtard is a third-generation Mithran, making him powerful and dangerous. He is on the European Council of Mithrans, and while he verbally adheres to the Vampira Carta, it is rumored that he still practices the worst of slavery, buying children and drinking from them. Until recently, most of his scions were younger than fifteen when they were turned.”

I smelled the reaction of the people in the room. Le Bâtard already had enemies. Good.

Her voice pedantic, Adelaide continued. “Le Bâtard turned Peregrinus, Batildis, and our Grégoire, and while Grégoire walked away from his maker’s cruelty, Peregrinus did not. It is said that he emulates his sire and still serves him. Le Bâtard seldom leaves France. Peregrinus and his sister—sister in the Mithran manner, being the children of a common sire, but partners and lovers—travel often, and are accompanied by the Devil, their primo blood-servant, and a swordswoman who has never been defeated in Blood Challenge. Wherever they travel, they leave in their wake a swath of death and destruction, and always a number of missing children.” I frowned and so did lots of others at the table. “They have come to be known as Satan’s Three. They have, purportedly, been looking for magical items for years, all over the world,” Del said.

I looked up at that one as quick thoughts tumbled over in my mind. Now it all made sense. I had magical items in a bank vault, which Reach would have known. I had thought about moving in here, but maybe that wasn’t such a good way to protect my client. If I was here, then all the attacks would be here. If I was out there, then Satan’s Three would come to me first, thinking me the easier nut to crack.

Del said, “After recent events, it is no surprise that seekers of the magical would show up here, in the States.”

I said, “We believe that Peregrinus and his cronies are here in Louisiana now, without Leo’s leave. We also believe that it was the human blood-servant known as the Devil who kidnapped and tortured the world’s best researcher on vamps while two vamps, a male and a female, looked on. Reach disconnected before I was able to get a description of the torturer, except it might have been female and it had birds tattooed on its arms. Her arms. Whatever.” Electricity seemed to race through the room as the words penetrated and they realized the importance of it all.

“Our best guess is that while the Devil worked on Reach, he or she got everything in Reach’s databases. That means my file, Leo’s file, and probably the file on everyone here at HQ. Reach was nosy and I don’t doubt that he had the security protocols, which is why Aardvark was only in hard copy. We’ve changed passwords and set up the one protocol that Reach couldn’t have, but it may be a case of too little, too late. The Three want something that they think I have or that Leo has.”

I continued. “Next item is the brownouts. We’ve had people all over checking the HQ wiring and making replacements. It’s taking forever, because some of the wiring is decades old and not in use or hidden inside walls, which then have to be torn out and repaired. Frankly, we need all the wiring torn out and new wiring installed from top to bottom, but there’s not enough time between now and the Europeans’ arrival to do that, so we’re stuck with making jury-rigged repairs while looking for the causative factor for the events.

“The Otis repair people and the electrical wiring company people have been in and out. They’ll continue to be on the buddy system with our people. Let’s make sure the workers are always—and I mean always—with someone from security. You need to take a bathroom break, you call for backup. The workers need a break, you get someone to go in with them. Most of the repair people are related by blood-servant status, but any one of them could have hidden connections to one of the groups who hate nonhumans. No outsiders go alone at all, and if they have any kind of electronic devices on their person, they leave them in your hands when they go to restrooms. Understood?”

There were nods around the table, but I felt an itch between my shoulder blades. I had done deep background on all of these guys and gals. But it was very possible that I’d missed something. It only took one ticked-off human with a hand grenade or a pipe bomb.

“Del, our greatest concerns are rewiring security, food service, and emergency lighting, in that order.”

Del nodded and made a note to herself.

“Okay, folks. Let’s talk about the rainbow light-dragon. Leo called it a ‘Grand danger. L’esprit lumière. L’arcenciel.’” I stumbled over the French. “Anyone know what that is?” When no one volunteered, I said, “I’ll be finding out. Meeting adjourned.”

•   •   •

Wrassler led me to Grégoire’s boudoir. That was the only thing I could call it. Bedroom was too plain; suite was too businesslike; quarters was too military, though there were parts to all of those in the three small rooms. The woodwork at the ceiling was heavily carved, coated with gilt, and the walls had been painted in shades of blue that would complement the color of Grégoire’s eyes. I knew that because there was a life-sized painting of Grégoire just inside the door, his eyes matching his velvet clothes, gold lace at his wrists.

The entrance was wide with cabinets on either side of the door. I could smell steel and lemon oil, baby oil, lacquer or varnish—something to coat wood—and leather. The scents were different from the smells a gun cabinet would have held. These cabinets held swords. Metal weapons. Probably lots of different blades. My hands itched to open the doors and sniff through them. Wrassler led me on inside.

To the left of the door was a tiny room with one whole wall dedicated to wines, most with dusty labels. There was a narrow bar with crystal decanters and crystal glasses for decanting and drinking wine. The rest of the room was taken up by a delicate sofa, a tiny table, and two small chairs, all looking like something a French king might have used. And maybe had.

To the right was a closed door and I knew better than to open it uninvited, but I guessed it was a closet and dressing room. Grégoire was a dandy and his closet probably took up the biggest room in the boudoir suite.

Directly ahead was the bedroom, most of it blocked by Wrassler’s broad back. The room was like something out of a French castle. Silks and tapestries and rugs piled on top of rugs and art stacked several deep against the walls. In most of the artwork a female was front and center. Batildis. Batildis in velvets and silks and lace, posed in fields and libraries and fancy salons. And in others wearing nothing, posed on beds and horses and . . . with Grégoire.