Shadow Rites

“And the imprints won’t match. So now they’ll assume that vamps killing and eating humans is common,” I said.

“When it is not at all,” Bruiser said.

I let out a tired-sounding sigh. “I’ll notify Dell to prepare a PR response to those potential problems. And Jodi,” I added, “just in case someone calls her about the cop-eater vamp.”

“The second item I need to share with you,” Bruiser said, “was something that we found at the bottom of the pit. A small gold knife that once belonged to Edmund Hartley. He claims that it was lost during the time he moved from clan Blood Master to minor scion.”

“And since no one understands how a freaky powerful vamp like Edmund lost his clan to a weaker vamp like Bettina, that makes him suspect in some machination to overthrow Leo or cause trouble in general,” I said. “Got it.” I might not like vamp politics and quarrels, but I was getting a handle on them, even the quarrels that went back centuries.

“Edmund has been bled and read to verify his claims.”

Bled and read. I liked that. “Has Bettina been asked to HQ?”

“She has, and she arrived some hours ago. She has refused to be questioned about the Blood Challenge that led to her taking over Clan Laurent, Edmund’s old clan, however, so Leo is simply serving strong vintages to her, to Ming of Glass, to Cai, and to Shaun Mac Lochlainn, Bettina’s anamchara, in a party room, in the hopes that some verbal insight might be allowed to slip out in the gaiety.” His tone was droll, and I knew that gaiety meant way more than party hats and balloons. Strong vintages meant that the humans the vamps were drinking from were terribly drunk on expensive liquors, making it possible for the vamps to enjoy themselves as well. Sex and blood, as Eli had said.

I was too tired to put what it all might mean together without banging my head on the nearest wall in frustration, but Bettina had once been clan master of Rousseau. She had been taken down by rivals within her own clan, not according to vamp law, in personal sanctioned combat—Blood Challenge—but outside proper channels. Clan Rousseau had been ruined in the war and the claimants to her title had died. Then Bettina called the sire of Clan Laurent, the powerful and charismatic Edmund Hartley, to personal combat and she had bested Edmund.

Bettina, a beautiful, tiny, curvy woman, was of mixed race heritage, mostly African and European, and while her sexuality could make the air burn, she hadn’t appeared that powerful in other vamp gifts, as least not to me. Vamp one-upmanship stuff wasn’t my department, but I said, “Okay, so we have two witches.” I raised a finger, counting. “Ming in a pit with dead humans.” A second finger. “With Edmund, who wants to be my primo, and maybe Bettina, who is keeping secrets, and a Witch Conclave coming up.” I had five fingers in the air. “Just five little things to deal with. So far.”

“So far,” Bruiser agreed.

I dropped my hand. “And two, count ’em, two, magical brooches tying them all together. Were there fingerprints on the brooch you were carrying?”

“Yes, but no matches with AFIS or military databases. The brooch that was on Ming of Mearkanis had been underwater, so no prints there at all.”

“May I see the brooches?” I asked. “Together?”

“Yes.” Bruiser slid the headset up and into place, switched it on, and said, “Bring the brooches to me.” He gave his location and said, “And please bring the small repast I requested. Tea and some scones for the Enforcer. Coffee for Eli Younger and myself.” He switched the set off. Eyes twinkling, he said to me, “In case you didn’t get enough donuts while I worked in the mud to . . . satisfy you.”

I flushed slightly but held Bruiser’s eyes and said, “I was satisfied at the time, but there’s always room for more.”

“Room. Room, you two,” Eli said, sounding long-suffering, keeping his eyes on the far wall.

Bruiser and I sat silent, waiting on the brooches and the small repast. So dignified, that. Way better than a snack.

Following a discreet knock, three blood-servants entered the room, one carrying a tray with a carved wooden box on it, the size of a child’s jewelry box. The other two blood-servants brought in the repast and a tea table with folding legs, which they set up in the center of the room. “That will be all,” Bruiser said. When the door closed, he poured my tea into a porcelain teacup so fine I could see the tea through the cup, and placed it on a saucer. Moving gingerly to keep from breaking the expensive china, I added sugar and real cream and stirred with a sterling silver spoon while Bruiser and Eli helped themselves to the carafe.

When I had sipped and eaten, Bruiser slid the wooden box across the table to me. The wood was unfinished, the top and sides roughly carved in lotus blossoms. The wood was unfamiliar to me, but the tingle of magic when I reached for the box wasn’t.

I opened the top and caught a single glimpse of the gems. A bright greenish magic slammed into me, sizzling into my left palm like a red-hot branding iron. The light in the room telescoped down to a single pinpoint of light. And then even that went black.

* * *

I came to, ears-first, hearing the conversation around me.

“She’s breathing.”

“Heart rate one eighty-five. BP two fifty-six over one twenty-seven.”

“Too high. Too high. Stroke territory.”

“How do you know what a normal blood pressure is for a . . . whatever she is?”