“Gee’s my Enforcer now. Where would he sleep?”
“I assume a bed could be found. There’s quite a bit of square footage up there.”
“Okay. Good by me. It’s cheaper than buying a bigger house.”
Edmund gave me a small smile and finished his wine. “I took it upon myself to purchase Brute a new mattress, memory foam, with a lining and white cotton sheets so they could be bleached easily. Wolves are often dirty. He should be back by morning. One assumes he will be cranky, and the bed may ease that.”
A cranky werewolf would be dangerous. “Thank you,” I said.
Edmund nodded and stood. “I’ll dress. My mistress shall require proper attendants at the soiree.” He glanced at Bruiser. “Someone who will focus on threats and not simply dancing.”
Bruiser’s brown eyes warmed. “What we do is not simply dancing.”
Edmund’s eyes rolled.
“Seriously?” I asked. “You did an eye roll?”
Edmund said, “You would prefer me to suggest that you get a room?”
Bruiser chuckled, the low burr of sound that slid along my nerves like heated velvet, and pulled me to my feet and into his arms. “Let’s get dressed and go ‘simply dancing.’”
I managed a nod, feeling again that odd warmth and fullness in my chest, as if my heart was expanding, too big for my rib cage. Bruiser wrapped my hand in his and led me from the kitchen.
In my room, on my bed, was a box all wrapped up in shiny silver paper, with a bow big enough to hide a small car. I opened the card. It was plain white, with Bruiser’s distinctive scrawl on the inside. Jane, love, it read. This was a gift for a future evening, but nothing will be more important than celebrating your return to me. Madame Melisende claims to have created the perfect dancing dress for you. I hope she is correct and that you adore it. I’ll call for you at the designated time. Love, Bruiser.
I touched the last line, a small smile on my face. Sat on the bed and opened the box. Inside was a dress, a black dancing creation with spaghetti straps, a tight bodice, and a flared, split skirt to my calves. It came with a loose shawl in a dark shade of gold that matched my eyes, swirled through with blue, the color of a midnight sky. In its own velvet box was a gold necklace with a matching blue faceted stone. I kissed my Onorio and he kissed me back. Things happened. Hot, hard, and fast. We ended up having to take our own vehicle to the dance club.
• • •
In some cities, a major flood might mean closing up shop and waiting out the cleanup. In New Orleans, in parts of the French Quarter, especially, flood cleanup was down to an art, and nowhere so advanced than at Royal Mojo Blues Company, Leo Pellissier’s bar and grill and dance hall. If wallboard had been reapplied to the walls after Katrina, the cleanup would have been longer, stinkier, moldier, and messier, but the walls had been left with the raw brick exposed. The recent flood had meant pulling out the pressure washer and blasting the walls and concrete floors, cleaning out the bathrooms and the appliances, and letting it all dry before bringing in a ton or two of food and liquor. And New Orleans, after a day and night of miserable hard work, wanted to party, so every open bar and dance joint in the city was bursting to capacity.
Half an hour after arriving, I was sweaty and tired and utterly satisfied, ready to take a table reserved by Bruiser for our crowd, one just off the dance floor. We had been boogieing to Roddy Rockwell, the band having driven in from Mobile to entertain the city, and the mix of music from the last seventy years was perfect for dancing. They had ended the set with a Bro-country version of their eighties hit “Blindsided,” and we had whooped it up with a country line dance created on the spot by Eli. My partner could dance, especially with a stunning witch encouraging him. Bliss, who would forever after be called Ailis, was swinging her booty and stepping high. Eli was entranced with the black-haired, pale-skinned witch. Unlike Sylvia, Ailis didn’t use guns, but then, as a witch, she didn’t need them. I hoped neither one would get hurt from the rebound attraction.
After the set, we all gathered around two tables, my clan and Leo’s vamps, drinking and laughing and telling stories from the last few days, filling each other in, and bragging about head count. Vamp head count. So far, I seemed to be in the lead. Go me. Or not.
We shared baskets of wings, bruschetta with a half dozen kinds of toppings, hummus with flatbread, spinach dip and chips, small burger sliders, house-made Parmesan cheese with hot peppers, and little pizzas. I wasn’t too full to enjoy, my metabolism still high and my appetite higher.
And when the band returned to the stage, I took the opportunity to go to the ladies’ room—not something I’d take for granted again. I heard the song start, the music piped into the restroom, the lead singer’s raspy voice singing, “I used to be the spark. I could always start a fire in your heart.”
I smoothed my hair back into the French braid. Tucked the blue stone into my cleavage—what there was of it—with the gold nugget. I looked good and for once I knew it. I stretched my lips and reapplied scarlet lipstick.
Over the speakers, the singer crooned, “Our love was so hot, so hot . . .” In the background, over the speakers, a saxophone started playing. The notes low, plaintive. Familiar.
My hand, holding the lipstick, froze. Dropped away from my face. The tube fell and clattered to the countertop. I pushed through the door and out into the poorly lit hallway. And around to the dance floor.
“Didn’t think you would ever stop, carrying my flame, but baby, something’s changed.”
The saxophone player was wearing black, a long-sleeved, nearly see-through T-shirt and black jeans. Black hair hung over his face. Too long. Unkempt. Frenchy-black eyes closed.
“Where’s the fire that was in your eyes whenever you were close to me,” the lead singer sang. “Where’s the fire? don’t you realize, just how much you mean to me?”
Rick’s eyes opened above the sax and found me, instantly, standing in the shadows, his eyes gleaming the green of his cat. “Where’s the fire, baby? Why are you so cold? Where’s the fire, baby . . .”
The song. Had been written for me? For us? The look in his eyes said yes. “Don’t try to tell me everything’s all right. Just tell me. Where’s the fire tonight?”
Eli appeared at my side. “He knows what he did, Babe. I think this is an apology. As public as he could make it.”
Bruiser stepped out from behind my partner. He held out his hand. “May I have this dance, love?” I put my hand into his heated one. His palm and strength centered me. I let him lead me to the dance floor. He enfolded me, holding me close, my face pressed into his shoulder, arms around me, keeping me safe. All the while, the lyrics of love lost sang into the bar.
“Where’s the fire that was in your eyes whenever you were close to me? Where’s the fire? Don’t you realize, just how much you mean to me?”
Bruiser and I danced to the song of heartbreak and lost love. When it was over, I looked up. Rick LaFleur was gone.
CHAPTER 22
Shove It Up Your Royal Ass
We were called to vamp HQ just before dawn, with orders to run by the house first and pick up a few items. Leo offered assurances that we would be allowed to leave with everything we brought, so I agreed, though with misgivings. Bruiser was now wearing all his weapons. I was weaponed up and also carrying two magical items, the Glob hidden in a pocket and le breloque in my hand. Laden with the belongings we had been ordered to bring, Bruiser and I stood before Leo’s office like supplicants or children at the principal’s office. Scrappy, who had led us in, as if we needed to be shown the way, knocked and opened the door.
We entered.
The smell of Leo—papyrus and ink and black pepper—hung strong on the air. We heard a tapping, as if on a laptop, soft but unsteady, and I remembered the damage to Leo’s hand. The furniture was back in its place, businesslike instead of raunchy-orgy-ménage à trois–like. Leo was sitting behind his desk, dressed in casual clothes, things I thought he probably slept in when he wasn’t doing sex and blood—thin knit black pants with a loose long-sleeved shirt. His hair was back in a short queue, looking as if it had been trimmed again. The Master of the City was pale and was wearing slippers, but he was upright and working.