“Sound off,” Angel commanded. The regular service chatter was cut and a tense silence lay over the security channel. One by one, Derek’s people checked in, their words preceded and followed by tiny clicks of the com system.
“T. Jolly Green Giant,” the first said. “All is a go. Front entrance is clear.”
“T. Sweaty Bollock. All is a go.”
“T. Antifreeze. I’m good. Back entrance is clear and shut down.” The T stood for Tequila. Derek named all his groups of men after drinks.
“T. Sunset. Clear.” “Trash Can, clear.” “Red Dragon, clear.” “T. Acapulco, clear.” “V. Martini, clear.” “V. Lime Rickey, I’m good.” The V stood for Vodka. And no one else spoke.
A long silence sounded before I heard, “V. Lee’s Surrender, clear,” Derek said. “We got one disappeared.”
I tapped my mic. “Angel, who’s missing? Cameras. Report.”
I remembered to breathe, forced down my anxiety, and drew my Walther, catching Jodi’s eyes. Pointed to the guest entrance. When she saw my gun, she nodded and drew her service weapon, moving with it in both hands, pointed down, trigger finger along the slide. She moved to stand beside the entrance, but behind a column that gave her both protection and a good angle of fire.
“Vodka Sunrise is down,” Angel Tit said over the coms unit, his voice calm. “I repeat. Vodka Sunrise is down. His position is beside the elevator on the back entryway floor.”
“Hold your positions,” Derek said. “On my way.”
My heart started racing. Something bad was happening, and it had started at the elevator. Someone had gotten past one of Derek’s men.
Angel Tit said, “All I can see is his boots. Suggest you take the nearest men with you. That would be Trash Can and T. Sunset.”
“Sunset, move midhallway and cover both ends,” Derek ordered. “I’ve taken the stairwell. I am in position. Trash Can, approach the elevator.”
“T. Sunset. I am in position.”
“Trash Can. Entering elevator.” I heard the soft ding of closing doors over my com. Trash Can was in the most dangerous position. Whatever the cameras had missed could be waiting for the doors to open. A second ding indicated that the doors had opened. “Trash Can. Leaving elevator.”
“Lee on bottom floor,” Derek said softly. “I have V. Sunrise in sight. Repeat. Have a visual on Sunrise. He is on the floor but he is moving. Repeat, man down, but he is mobile.”
A string of curses came over the com, in the harsh, slurred tones of Vodka Sunrise. “Somebody knocked out my tooth.” And then he started back cussing.
“Entering hallway from elevator,” Trash Can said. “I have a visual of target. No encoms,” he said. “Repeat, no encoms.”
“Situation is secure,” Derek said.
I gave Jodi a thumbs-ups and touched my mic. “High-alert status for entire team. Anyone, I repeat, anyone, who enters your area is to be stopped, ID-confirmed, and searched as you consider appropriate. Angel, go over security on the cameras in that area. I want to know what happened.”
“Copy. On it, Legs.”
Jodi reached me. “What?”
“Don’t know. We had a man down. Something’s wrong, but I don’t know what.”
“Vamp parties are so much fun.” She moved away into the crowd, her gun once more hidden in the flowing folds of her skirt. I looked around. No one on the other communications channel seemed to have noticed anything odd. The blood-servant security types looked calm and efficient in whatever jobs they were doing.
“Legs,” Angel Tit said into my earpiece.
“Go ahead,” I replied.
“Something funny about the footage. It’s all blurred. When it clears, Sunrise is on the floor, bleeding and not moving. Magic sometimes does this to digital footage.”
“Magic,” I said bitterly. “Copy it and send it to Alex.”
“Copy.”
A form appeared at my side, startling me. I had one hand on the blade at my thigh before I recognized Gee DiMercy. My breath went tight. The misericord was slim, slight, and deadly, dressed in black but not a tux. He was wearing an odd sort of outfit, tight but elastic, allowing him to move. He looked dark and deadly, like a modern-day ninja or hired assassin. Which he was, in a way. And worse, he was fully armed with knives strapped at both thighs; they had long blades for knives, more like short swords with carved ridges on the utilitarian grips. “We have a problem,” he said, staring at the door the guests used from the porte cochere.
“Yeah, I—” And I realized he didn’t have access to the communication channels. I followed his gaze, my right hand still holding the Walther .380 and my left on a knife hilt. A couple entered and my hands tightened on both. “Crap,” I said. The place went slowly, uncomfortably, silent.
Much too late, the announcer said, “Ahhh. Jacques Shoffru, Master of the City of Veracruz and Cancún, Mexico, and all hunting territories between. And his companion, Adrianna, formerly of Clan St. Martin, currently of . . .” The speaker hesitated, not sure how to name a vamp who had been given a death sentence. He ended with the more polite “of Clan Arceneau.”
Crap. Crapcrapcrap. Adrianna was working with Shoffru. Starting when? For how long? Did that mean Shoffru knew everything Adrianna did? Did she have anything to do with the attack on Sunrise? “How long has she been on the premises?” I demanded.
Gee tilted his head up and looked down his nose at me. “Only now. She has been in my sight all but about two seconds as she rounded from the elevator.”
I tried to put that into the time that had gone by and the man down, as Derek took over the situation on the ground floor. I tapped my mic. “Derek. How many just came up?”
“Elevator full, two groups of fifteen. Coordinated movements. No one separated from the groups, no one unaccounted for.” Meaning nothing looked hinky with them as it might relate to Sunrise hitting the floor and losing teeth. But if magic had been used, who knew what had really happened? I looked back at Adrianna. “How did Adrianna get past you? And is it okay for me to hurt her? Bad?”
Gee said, “We can discuss how she eluded me later. For now, she is on the arm of Jack Shoffru, and as his guest, she is in possession of an invitation, one that guarantees her access to the premises and personal safety while she is here.”
I chuckled, the sound low but not amused. Along with every other eye in the room, I studied the pair. Adrianna had her scarlet hair up in a fancy do of braids and curls and pins and pearls. She was wearing a designer dress the same scarlet as her hair, the skirts flowing out around her, her shoulders and décolletage bare, the neckline covered with crystals and pearls and plunging nearly to her waist. Around her neck was a Celtic necklace, and a gold snake crawled up one upper arm, jewelry she had worn to a vamp function before—the night she tried to kill me. My heart rate sped at the memory.
“Got another smear on-screen,” Angel said. “Sending men to intercept.”
“Copy,” I said.
Escorting her was the mystery man, Shoffru. He was swarthy-skinned for a vamp, his dark hair loose and shoulder length, curling toward his chin, like the finger of beard that defined his jaw. He was wearing a tuxedo, the suit, shirt, and cummerbund all midnight black, and his tie and shirt were both undone and hanging loose to reveal his chest and the thick black hair matted there. He was strong, athletic, and walked with a hip-rolling swagger that looked like trouble. He also looked as if he’d been drinking, and maybe he had been, vamp-style, on lots of blood. His dossier hadn’t said anything about his lifestyle in the last hundred years, but he acted like a Naturaleza, well muscled and aggressive. And he was wearing gold earrings, thick, inch-diameter hoops that looked old and heavy, like booty he might have taken from a plundered ship. Last, and really weird, was the lizard on his shoulder. It was a bright green with darker green stripes down its sides, and its snout was up, tongue flicking as it took in the room. I had read about the lizard, named Longfellow, but hadn’t expected to see it at a formal occasion.