Dark Heir

“Ummm . . . Hey, Molly,” I said carefully. “Why didn’t I call you about what?”

“About an introduction to Lachish Dutillet. Why didn’t you call me instead of Jodi Richoux?”

“Beeecause you are far away and—” I stopped as understanding hit me over the head, and started over. “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. I know that you’re planning the Witch Conclave, and that has to involve Lachish Dutillet, doesn’t it? And because I didn’t call you and tell you I needed to see the coven leader, you got blindsided. And probably embarrassed. I was trying to be nice and not bother you. I’m an idiot.”

The silence over the line told me nothing, and though I wanted to babble to cover the hush—a totally uncharacteristic urge—I decided that not saying anything was the smart thing to do. Keeping my big mouth shut wasn’t easy for me, but I was getting smarter. Slowly.

Alex shoved a megabite of Mona Lisa Special pizza into his mouth to smother a laugh. Eli just looked amused and helped himself to another slice of the spinach pizza. Both guys were listening avidly, probably wondering if Molly would lose it and try to kill me.

“Molly?”

She blew out a breath and let go of her anger, which was a step in the right direction for the control issues my friend was having, control over her magic and emotions. In the background I heard the musical anti-spell playing, the one created by Molly’s husband to dampen her death magic.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “in case ‘I’m an idiot’ didn’t say it clearly enough.”

“Okay. I was just . . . surprised,” she said, her tone suggesting a shrug, still anxious sounding. “There’s a meeting next week between Lachish and the Master of the City’s primo to discuss topics for the parley. I’m going to ask Leo’s Enforcer to be on hand to present the security arrangements for the conclave.” Which meant me, because she didn’t know that temporarily, I wasn’t Leo’s Enforcer. “The meeting has been moved up because of the death of the fifty-two humans and the blood-sucker that’s loose. Jodi talked to Lachish and suggested that the fanghead might have used magic as well as compulsion to hold the humans down.”

Jodi had been studying the video too, probably with the help of a PsyLED agent, and had clearly drawn some interesting conclusions. A little warning from her would have been nice, but I held that in, saying, “We need to chat about that. I have info. And some problems. And—”

“The conclave is flying me in, so I have to go. I don’t know the arrangements yet, but I’ll see you soon.”

“Wait! Are you staying with us?” I asked. “And are you bringing KitKit?” KitKit was Molly’s cat and familiar—not that witches have familiars, and suggesting such a thing to a witch is as big a faux pas as suggesting that vamps sleep in coffins. But the cat helped to keep Molly’s death magics in control, so technically, Molly had a familiar. Weird. But Molly Megan Everhart Trueblood was never ordinary.

Molly blew out a breath and the last of her anger with it. “Damn cat,” she muttered, letting me know her kids were close by. “KitKit has categorically refused to get in a travel crate, and I have the scratches to prove it. So I’ve drugged her, stuffed her in, booked the fastest flight I can, with the fewest layovers, and hope to all that’s holy that she’s still asleep when we arrive. And yes. I’d like to stay with you, since cats aren’t welcome in most hotels. The kids are staying with Evan because of, you know, crazy suckhead vampire who might be able to do magic, in your town, killing people. I’ll let you know about the meeting. Gotta go.” The call ended without my getting a chance to update her on the mess she was walking into in New Orleans. I thought about calling her back, but there should be time to do that when she was on the ground. And besides, if the witches had been talking to the cops, Molly might know more than I did.

I looked up at Alex. “Call Katie’s housecleaning service to get in here fast.”

“Good thing we kept the litter box,” he said. “Texting the cleaning service in to clean and to move my stuff to Eli’s bathroom.” His thumbs paused over his tablet. “Kids coming?”

“No.” I quoted Molly’s comment about the vampires as I lifted the last slice of the Special and took a big bite. Around it I said to Eli, “You do know that even the spinach pizza has carbs and fats, don’t you?”

“Shhh,” Alex said. “I told him it was fat-free, organic veggies, tofu, and goat cheese.”

I chuckled through the mouthful and drank down Coke. It felt wrong on some level to stop and eat and take a break and chat and laugh. Fifty-two humans were dead and it was our job to find the killer, but we had all learned over the years, separately and together, to take a break when we could, sleep when we could, and eat when we could. That if we met a killer vamp when we were hungry, sleepy, tired, and emotionally drained, we’d lose and lose bad. So we took our break, and we ate, and we recharged. We had to.

When there was nothing left in either take-out box, I shoved the last half slice into my mouth and pointed to my room. “Weapon up.” Except it came out more like ’Wa’on’uu.

“Yeah,” Eli said. “Full gear. Just in case Joseph Santana was stupid enough to go back to his old lair.”

“Before you leave, there are contracts to sign, messengered over from the governor’s and the mayor’s offices. The powers that be have signed them already, and our lawyer has approved the language. And so have I,” Alex added, sounding just a bit smug. Alex was self-taught, but the boy genius could read legalese like the best attorney in town. I trusted his evaluation. We all did. But no way was I gonna tell him. His head was too big already.

* * *

Most of Esplanade Avenue in the Quarter was well preserved, well kept, and not cheap digs. The address where Joses had laired long ago, the night Leo had essentially taken him captive, and where he might even now be asleep, in a hole in the walls or floor, or under the house in a vault, was a two-storied, narrow-fronted house that was nearly four times deeper than it was wide, with two different kinds of columns holding up the short front gallery and the roof. The wrought-iron front gate and iron lattice-style gallery fencing didn’t match either, but were still quintessential New Orleans. The front windows were narrow and long, with working shutters, and the house had lots of fancy woodwork, potted ferns, blooming flowers in hanging baskets, and fancy little tasseled awnings over every side window. Most important, the address sported a small, gaited parking area in back and evidence of retrofitted central air. Due to the parking and the five air-conditioning units, there was no courtyard area or garden, but I figured the owners were more concerned about protecting the Bentley Mulsanne and the brand-new Mercedes-Benz coupe parked in back than in growing their own fresh flowers and veggies.