Shadow Rites

* * *

Eli bundled me into the limo and turned on the heat. Both men turned their backs so I could dress in my own clothes, but I pulled the warm sweatshirt back over my street clothes for the extra warmth and comforting scent. As I dressed, Alex texted more info on the brooches. Eli read and told us, “No records on sale or insurance, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s possible that all four were spelled or that only two were spelled. Alex checked probate and found that Marlene Nicaud was left two brooches and the girl was left two. The women received the brooches about six months ago.” He looked up at me. “That gave them six months to learn how to use the brooches. Six months to bleed Ming of Mearkanis, who we found because the brooch we had tracked to the brooch on Ming. Which means that we could use the two brooches we have to track the other two.”

Bruiser chuckled and the two men exchanged a complicated fist bump of victory. I said, “Unless that’s what they want you to do.” The men dropped fists, considering. “In which case you would be walking into a trap and go boom.”

“True,” Bruiser said. “And it also means that this started long before you got to NOLA, Jane. So Antoine’s original plan would have been in place before you killed Immanuel. Which means that plan, whatever it was in the beginning, was taken over and subsumed by Tau and Marlene. But it might still be in effect, like a second trap we could walk into unaware, at any time. We need to find Tau and Marlene. Get Alex to do property searches and credit—”

“Being done as we fly,” Eli said.

I added, “They have DNA from . . . maybe all of us.” My cell buzzed with a text and I said, “Molly.” It was a reply to the thread where I asked her about breaking DNA spells. She had texted, and I read aloud, “Piece of cake. Antigenetic spells were some of the first defensive workings ever made. I can put together a couple dozen in a couple hours.”

Bruiser nodded, turning his unfocused gaze out to the sun, rising over the flat wet world in a wash of gold and pinks.

* * *

It was after dawn when we reached home and I was exhausted. I needed to stuff myself on food, needed to sleep, but the house was full and noisy when we entered, and I had a feeling sleep wasn’t going to be mine today, not here. Before the door even closed I spun on a heel, leaving Eli inside, and jogged back to the limo. “Bunk at your place?”

Bruiser opened the door, his eyes warm. “My bed is far more comfortable than a bunk.”

I fell inside and the door closed. “True,” I said. “But right now I’d take the floor if the place was quiet.”

Bruiser’s lips turned up in a smile I didn’t see often. “I don’t think we’ve ever done it on the floor— Well, nearly.” He tapped the limo floor with his toe. “Nearly. On this floor.” A low-key thrill ran through me, but before I could reply he pressed the limo intercom and said, “I have an order to be picked up at Stanley Restaurant on St. Ann Street.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said. “Shall I go in and pick it up, sir?”

“Yes, please.”

“The Stanley?” I perked up.

That odd, heated look was still on Bruiser’s face, his eyes a warm brown like melting milk chocolate. “Yes.”

I breathed out, “Breaux Bridge Benedict?”

He nodded.

“Ohhh. Oh my. Creole breakfast potatoes?”

He nodded again and said, “Pecan-smoked bacon and eggs Stanley. A carafe of coffee for me and a carafe of tea for you. And pancakes with vanilla ice cream and all three side options.”

I closed my eyes, my mouth watering. And then, eyes still closed, my lips turned up. “You knew I was coming to your place, didn’t you?”

“I had very, very high hopes.”

The sound I made was helpless and laughing all at one. “We really should do it on the floor. At least once. Or twice.”

Bruiser’s arms slid around me and he pulled me to him across the seat.

* * *

We reached the restaurant before anything could progress to the floor, and then Bruiser’s apartment before anything could progress to the floor, and then, because I was beyond starving, we ate before anything could progress to the floor of the apartment. And then . . . I fell asleep.

Later, I felt Bruiser crawl in beside me and pull me close, spooning. The stubble of his beard was rough on my shoulder, and his chest was Onorio-hot against my back. His body smelled of Onorio, his new, spicy scent that I was still getting used to, and the faint, familiar citrus of his cologne. His breath smelled of pancakes and bacon. Bacon . . . Sleep took me again.

When I woke next, it wasn’t to be dragged to the floor, but to far more delightful pursuits on the mattress. Bruiser was right. His bed was much more comfortable than a bunk. Afterward, I panted against his shoulder, “We’re still . . . doing it . . . on the limo . . . floor someday.”

Gasping, he said, “God yes . . . Someday. Soon . . . When I can feel my feet again.”

* * *

An hour after nightfall, I walked out of my bedroom dressed in worn jeans tucked into old green Lucchese boots, and a men’s tailored white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I was wearing multiple leather armbands, each pressed with various logos: the company logo, Have Stakes—Will Travel, Yellowrock Securities, and my name. The one with my name was inset with tiny pieces of turquoise. I also wore my sterling-over-titanium gorget and my gold nugget necklace on its doubled gold chains.