His jaw landed on my fist. The pop of displaced air and the thump of chin to fist overlapped. Leo dropped back, sitting on the desktop, shaking his head. He started laughing and his fangs snapped up. That was three-quarters of the battle won back. I could’ve kissed my partner.
Leo looked us over, his gaze taking in my human clothes and my cat face, hands, and feet. I could see him thinking about asking me how much of my other parts were cat shaped. “Don’t,” I said. The skin around his eyes crinkled with amusement. He slid back into his desk chair and Eli and I took chairs. Maybe it was rude to sit without being asked, but I was tired, as if the little bit of fighting I had done had taken a lot out of me. When he didn’t object, I put my paws up on the small table as if it was an ottoman. Leo let me get comfortable. “We need to chat about—”
Leo held up a hand, stopping me.
Quesnel, the sommelier, entered the office, carrying a tray with a dozen bottles of beer on it. All of the bottles and cans were cold and sweating with condensation, the way Americans liked beer, which meant this was not part of the taste testing that went along with being the MOC. Quesnel set the tray on the table near my arm and indicated it, as if telling me to take a pick. “Our Master of the City is pleased to toast your ascension to clan Blood Master. What would you like?”
I pointed to a can of local NOLA Brewing Company beer. The Mecha brew had a red dragon on front that was eating part of the uptown. And then I pointed to the Irish Channel Stout by the same company. Quesnel opened both cans and poured each into a frosted beer glass, the pair of which he placed on the table at my other side. He produced a new glass for Leo and poured the scotch and water. Leo sat back in his chair, examining me in my half-form. There was no distaste or judgment in his eyes; rather, there was that hint of delight.
Leo’s enjoyment of my form fell away, leaving him pensive again. “I have no way to properly toast you, my Jane. The appropriate toast for a new Blood Master of a clan is from the jugular of a virgin boy or girl, with the words ‘Long undeath, prosperity, scions, blood, and cattle.’”
I looked at my beer. “Yeah. Beer is better. And how about ‘Live long and prosper.’”
Leo gave no indication that he found me funny as he lifted his scotch in a toast. Eli followed the example, with his glass. I picked up the Mecha, holding it out and slightly up. Leo repeated my words, “Live long and prosper.” Hearing the Vulcan blessing from Leo’s lips was giggleworthy, but I managed to smother the laugh.
Leo drank and ate a few nuts. Eli and I followed his example. In companionable silence I finished my beer. Then Leo refilled the scotch glasses and pushed my second beer to me. Leo said, “However, I prefer QaStaHvIS yIn ‘ej chep.”
I stopped with the beer held in the air, ice water dripping from my fingers. Eli said, “Klingon? You did not just say ‘Live long and prosper’ in Klingon.”
“Oh, but I did. And I do hope that my Jane may live many decades more and prosper greatly.” He held up his free hand in the Vulcan V salute, gave an abbreviated nod, and sipped.
Holy crap. Leo knew about Star Trek. A lot about Star Trek. Alex would have a cow.
Eyes gleaming, Leo sipped again and I remembered to lower my arm and drink too. Leo said, “I was informed that the white werewolf was biting Joses Santana.”
Finally we were getting to important stuff. “Yeah. And werewolf spit seems to make the SOD less magical. Does he taste different?”
“I have not tasted Joses in recent days,” Leo said, wryly. “I understand that the werecats who attacked us had fed from the Son of Darkness prior to them attacking us in the gym. Were you aware of this?”
I said, “I figured it out. Dominique let them in and destroyed the cameras along the way. We don’t have video footage.”
“Why did Dominique Quessaire betray her sworn oath to Grégoire and to me, after we forgave her trespasses and restored her to us? This has troubled me for . . .” He rotated a hand as if to say, For a long time.
“Magic, again? Lemon-smelling magic.” Tiredly, I asked, “Does it matter?”
Leo pondered this and then shook his head. “No.”
“You have the parley papers between the EuroVamps and Dominique and Cym and what I hope will soon be a dead rogue werewolf pack. The Bighorn Pack is hunting for any werewolf remnants still in the city. Alex will concentrate on Bancym, Clan Des Citrons, and Dominique. When he finds their lair, I’ll take it out. That leaves only the EuroVamps. Easy peasy.”
Leo smiled slightly and set down the remainder of his scotch as if it had lost flavor. “We will fight. Within two nights. It will be, as you Americans say, winner take all.”
“Which will make you the emperor of Europe.” I studied him. “For all that you’re a selfish narcissist with tendencies to see everyone on earth as tools to be used or discarded, you’ll rule well.”
Leo laughed, but it was a vamp laugh, all pathos and no human humor. “You honor me. Honor I do not deserve in the human understanding of the term, for I harmed you, my Jane, my Enforcer. My Dark Queen.”
For once I decided not to object to the titles or the possessives. He knew how I felt about them all. I sipped. After a moment Leo sipped again too. Eli watched us like a hawk, eyes piercing and steady. “You guys decided where the fights are gonna be?” I asked. “You’ve left me out of that decision-making process.”
“Such decisions are . . . above your pay grade.”
Well, wasn’t that just ducky. “I need to get the venue’s security in place.”
“I have not kept you in the dark without cause. I have used you for the purposes I need.”
He swirled his drink again, watching the scotch legs drain down the glass. “As of two hours past, the decision has been made to situate the Sangre Duello on one or another Chitimacha tribal island not far from Port Eads,” Leo said. “There are three tribal islands with houses that have been shared with Clan Pellissier since the early 1800s, and the tribe has allowed us to maintain the homes and the grounds for a reasonable fee.”
I thought about that, sipped the last of my beer, and said, “As tribal lands, the islands fall under non-U.S. lands use? So you can dock there and so can Titus.”
“Correct. It can be argued that, technically, the U.S. government has no jurisdiction there.”
“They might dispute that,” I said. “In court.”
“They might,” he agreed. “However, as we will not be announcing the exact locale, the Duello will be long over by the time the government decides how to apply the law to us, the Chitimacha, and Titus, put the proper paperwork together, and go to a judge for legal writs to charge us or to stop us.”
“Or they could just blow you out of the water as soon as you all arrive. Drop a bomb on the island or napalm it and be done with the biggest, baddest vamps on the planet.” Leo didn’t reply to that one, still turning his crystal glass. “You’re planning that by the time they figure out where the fights are taking place, Titus’s head will have rolled. But the military has satellite capability and radar and missiles.” Leo still said nothing. “You got a map of the places with GPS?”
Leo pulled up a topo map of the toe of Louisiana on his computer and turned it to me. Three places were fuzzed out, the way U.S. military installations are fuzzed out on satellite maps. I frowned at him and Leo said, “Some time ago, I arranged to have them . . . pixelated?” His tone questioned the term. “Money has its privileges.”
“Île des Eaux,” I said, reading the name of one. “Island of the Waters.” Leo looked impressed that I could translate the French, but île and eaux were pretty easy. “Spitfire Island and Contempt Isle. So when do we go?”
“A few housekeeping and landscaping blood-servants were dispatched a week past—just in case an island proved acceptable to Titus—to each of the three islands, along with a well-paid construction crew, to determine the houses’ suitability and state of disrepair. Security went down with the construction crew to evaluate those concerns. As soon as the final venue is decided upon, you will, of course, go down and oversee preparations for security.