Dark Queen
Page 67Trevis nodded at me, silent.
I remembered the boxes and stacked crates downstairs. “Lot of things a large group of vamps and humans can do without, Trevis. Plumbing isn’t one.”
Mike said, “Renny suggested we put in fighting mats on the sand under the first floor. We could add a shower outside since drains wouldn’t be needed.”
They knew the Sangre Duello was going to involve fighting and blood and were thinking ahead. Alex grunted. Eli frowned.
Trevis added, “They fight down there, the sand makes cleanup easier between bouts. The shower would keep some of the bloody mess out of the house, could be used to wash off blood, sweat, and gore outside rather than track it inside up the stairs.”
The idea was brilliant. “And?” I asked.
“And Marco said no,” Jake said.
“You want the fighting area and shower under the house?” Trevis asked me.
“I think it’s nifty. Is it possible to get an outdoor shower installed and still hit our timeline?”
“Can do,” Trevis said and trotted off, calling for Renny.
As he left, five men and the stocky woman I had seen earlier strode up the stairs. They carried hammers, hefty tape measures, skill saws, and an air of determination. In seconds they were banging permanent studs in place beside the temporary ones, hanging wallboard, and discussing ways to finish the walls without the finishing compound drying, which took three days in dry air. I knew finishing compound. It was the stuff that went under, above, and around wallboard tape to keep the seams from cracking. I’d seen Eli use it on the various house repairs. I’d been rough on the formerly freebie house.
“Money talks,” she said.
“I hope so.” Especially since I hadn’t cleared the expense with Leo’s accountant, Raisin. My promise would be a smack to the Mithran coffers. “Let’s see the vamp sleeping quarters.”
The central area was separated into four tiny, square rooms, all opening into a foyer of sorts. There were two official doors and an escape hatch out through a hidey-hole that led to a long drop to the sand, like a dumbwaiter chute. No windows. Extra-thick walls. I smelled old blood when Mike lifted the escape hatch. Some vamp had dropped through it in the distant past, badly wounded. Two electricians carrying toolboxes and ladders came in behind us and started work.
“The center rooms were already in place and the walls soundproofed when the full crew got here,” Mike said, “finished some time ago and ready for color. Soon as the last of the new bathroom walls are in place we’ll blow the paint on. We have enough equipment to blow the entire house in about three hours. And if we run out of solar power, we have generators. Paint will dry well enough in eight hours for the electricians to put up the lighting fixtures, and your staging team can work around the wetter spots. You can get the painters to stick around to touch up as needed.”
Mike was good, answering my questions before I asked. She led us back into the hallway, squatted, and indicated the unpainted wallboard. “Finishing compound won’t cure in time. It’ll look okay for a day or two, but in the wet air, it’ll mold if we don’t come back and strip the tape, recompound the walls, and repaint, but this is the best we can do.” She looked up at me, speculation in her eyes. I couldn’t place her expression. Beast raised her head, sniffed, and sat up, vaguely interested, but not telling me why. When I didn’t say anything, she asked, “You don’t talk much, do you?”
“Not really.” I pointed at the stairs up. “Let’s see the third floor.”
The third floor was one huge space, empty of workers, with gigantic wood pillars that held up the roof system and passed straight through the house, deep into the sand below. The room was vaulted with weathered gray-toned tongue-and-groove boards and big, slow-turning, copper fans, green with verdigris. There were hidden lights in the unpainted rafters and beams that cast quirky shadows. The walls were pale, maybe once painted white. The floor was cedar planks inlaid with darker wood in three places, each in the shape of La Destreza fighting rings. Not modern fighting rings, but octagonal fighting rings like I had seen in books. All the windows were open to the night air, and there were a lot of windows. For the first time I considered the kind of views that every window and the wraparound porch would have by day. Spectacular. I wondered how the house had survived hurricanes and floods. It was amazing.
“I love this room,” Mike said, turning in a circle, as if seeing all the views. She was balanced, rooted, her stance bringing Beast to the surface, turning my attention to the woman. Something about her movements. A dancer? Ice skater? “I could live here forever,” she said.
“I can see why,” Alex said, looking at me. “Dibs?”
I chuckled and shook my head. “No. You can’t claim this room.”
Despite the claw hammer and oversized tape measure on her belt, Bambi was an artist at heart, and better educated than her rant at the construction workers had indicated. Sadly, the room she was admiring wasn’t for artists or canvases; it was for fighting.
“Could be used for an artist’s atelier,” she said. “Could be a sleeping loft. There are heavy-duty steel screws in rings in all the supports, for backdrop cloths or to hang hammocks.”
The breeze shifted. I caught the scent of lemons, coming through the windows. Three stories up.
CHAPTER 15
Jane Was Sick from Walking through Time
Beast moved. Fastfastfast. Grabbed Alex left-handed and spun-tossed him out of harm’s way. He was still in the air when an object flew through the window. I/we leaped. Beast and Jane in perfect concert. Caught it. Let it swing me around and in the same motion, threw it out a different window. Heard odd popping sounds. Identified the device only after it left my/our hand. Hand grenade. Just outside the window, it exploded. Debris peppered inside the room.
My hand went numb. Spelled? I thought. Alex landed, rolled down the stairs. Shouting. More popping. Gunfire. Bambi/Mike dropped to the floor for cover.
I/we rushed window the grenade came through. Soared out the opening, into the night. And saw Marco dropping toward the roof of the porch below.
Beast is fast. She took over. Twisted in the air, away from the light in the window.
Marco landed on the tin roof. Turned, fast as a blood-servant. A blur in the darkness. He raised a weapon. Fired at the window we’d just left.
Marco snapped back. Fell from roof. To land on sand below. Beast is best hunter!
I/we whipped back. Caught edge of porch roofing. Metal and wood. Extended claws. Caught weight. Swung inside to porch, landing on railing. Man standing there squeaked. Everyone was down on floor. Taking cover.
Thanks, I thought to Beast as she gave me back my body.
I jumped the final distance to the sand and knelt beside the limp form of Marco. He was breathing. I grabbed his arm and rolled him over. Knee at his back. I tried to trap his arms, but my hand didn’t work.
I heard the individual, particular percussion of Eli’s feet on the steps, flat-out run, three stairs at a time. Smelled Eli. A nine-mil and handful of zip strips entered my field of vision.
“Can’t,” I breathed. Holding up my hand and arm.
Marco came back to consciousness and shook himself like a dog. Started fighting again, or trying to. Eli took over and strapped Marco’s wrists together. Not as easy to do as it sounded, with a screaming, punching, crazy blood-servant, one with broken legs from his fall, beneath him. One-handed, I banged his head on the ground, maybe harder than was necessary, to subdue him. Eli strapped his ankles together above his boots with heavy-duty zip strips.
When he was restrained, I removed Marco’s weapons. Everything. Down to the silver stake strapped to his calf.
I sat on Marco, breathing hard. Lip dripping. Blood all over my casual clothes, dang it. “How did he get free? How did he get up to the third floor?”