Shadow Rites

Molly pulled her husband down beside her on the sofa and Big Evan gathered her close. She leaned into him, their bodies making a nest for her baby bump. “You’re gonna love this, Jane,” Mol said, her eyes closing. “And maybe I should have opened with this, but . . .” She sighed, and I could smell the fatigue on her exhaled breath. “Tau was outside the Elms. Riding a brilliant blue motorcycle, one of those foreign ones with a lot of aluminum and a molded plasticized body.”

“A crotch rocket,” I said, remembering the sounds of the high-pitched engines several times. They had been watching me, keeping track. Probably through the magics in my left hand. I looked at my palm. Nothing there. Didn’t mean that I was free of magic. I wondered how many blue bikes were in New Orleans and the surrounding area.

Alex stated emphatically, “There’s not a single record of Tau owning a bike. But . . .” His fingers tapped whirlwind-fast on a tablet. “There were other witches in the circle where you were struck by lightning. Maybe one of them has a bike. I’ve done a search on them in case one of them was offering sanctuary and assistance to the Nicauds. But I haven’t looked for a bike. Or a bike maybe owned by one of their friends or family members. This will take a while. It would help if I knew the make.”

Molly shook her head. She didn’t know.

Before we left, the Truebloods turned in, safe behind the upgraded ward, one so powerful that even antitank missiles couldn’t penetrate it. Air elemental spells could still penetrate, but not without setting off a big honking alarm now. Evan and Mol hadn’t been able to make a magical filter working large enough to cover the house.

Alex turned in as well, taking the necessary tablets to bed with him to continue the search for conspirators. Eli, Edmund, and I made a trip to vamp HQ, to fill Leo in on the problems in the hope that the MOC might, maybe, put off his participation in the big witch hoedown. Not likely. Not likely at all.

CHAPTER 18

Leo Has a Type?

“You believe, then, that this superwitch, Tau, has a plan to compel the witches and Mithrans into war and kill whoever is left alive. Or undead,” Leo said, adjusting his cuffs and looking himself over in a long cheval mirror beside his desk. “Something of the like was to be expected, of course. Witches have always been notoriously sly and unpredictable. Unlike Mithrans, who can drink of a subject or scion to determine reliability and loyalty, and to compel that loyalty when needed.” He ran a hand down his flat stomach and turned to see himself from every angle. Satisfied, he removed solid gold cuff links, not the sterling silver ones he might have worn to show his power to Mithrans, and dropped them in a velvet bag held by one of his valets, whom I had seen but never met.

Lawrence Hefner was English, with a south London accent, according to Edmund. He wasn’t exactly a blood-servant, nor was he a blood-slave. He was more of a rarity in the vamp world, a human in that strange position of salaried specialist who did not drink vamp blood beyond that which was necessary to be trusted. Larry, who had sniffed at me when I called him that, drew the strings of the bag tight and placed it carefully on Leo’s desk. Leo’s shirt was a modern blend, both wrinkle-free, soft, and heavy-starched-looking all at once, tailored to show Leo’s trim form and the muscles beneath. Modern tech fashions were pretty cool.

But as I stood there, Leo unbuttoned the shirt, pulled it from the tuxedo pants, and tossed it at Larry. I blinked. Twice. I hadn’t seen Leo shirtless in . . . well, never. At least not any time when he wasn’t bloody and damaged. This was different. His once-olive skin was pale and scarred, the kind of scars that indicated damage no human would have survived. Dozens of life-threatening injuries. Beneath it, lithe muscles flexed as he took another shirt from Larry and pulled it on. This one was linen, the cut loose across the shoulders. As he buttoned it, I met Bruiser’s gaze. His eyes twinkled, his expression an understated amusement, as if to say, Yes. He’s pretty. I know. I remember seeing him strip off a shirt before.

I realized that there was a reason Leo had us meet here, while he was dressing. He was showing off. I shook my head at Bruiser as if to say, Oh. My. Gosh. Really? Really! Bruiser’s eyes went to laughter and he looked away, at the rug beneath his feet, as if to hide his expression.

“Yes,” I said to Leo, bringing my attention back to the conversation and away from the silent communication with my sugar lump. “This very situation we’re facing has to be why there’s a schism between vamps and witches. Because a small group of determined, powerful, prepared witches could ambush and destroy a larger, better-armed group of vamps.” Leo lifted an eyebrow at me in disdain. “In a heartbeat,” I said. “No matter how fast a well-fed vamp might compel or mesmerize them, witches can work in daylight and from a distance. If the witches ever decide to take over the paranormal world, vamps are screwed. Especially when fighting a senza onore witch.” Leo knew all this. Dang it.

“Hmm. What do you think, Lawrence?” Leo asked, ignoring everything I had just said.

“I prefer the other, milord. The fabric, while not traditional, will provide comfort in a stressful situation, and should you take off your tuxedo suit coat for some reason, the lines of that dress shirt are more appealing.”

“I tend to agree. Now, what about the silks and the cummerbund?”

Now he was just messing with me. I was tired, worn, it was nearly dawn, the day of the Witch Conclave. I sat down. Without permission. Larry sniffed at me again. So I put my feet up on the desk and crossed my boots at the ankles. And yawned. Larry turned his back on me, clearly scandalized.