The phone rang, waking me before dawn. I knew without looking that it was Leo—I could feel him pulling on the blood-bond. I wanted to ignore the cell’s insistent ringing, but my hand went out all its own and I picked up the phone, hit the TALK button. “What?”
Bruiser said, “At sunset yesterday, Lucas Vazquez de Allyon, Blood Master of Atlanta, Sedona, Seattle, and Boston, claimed blood-feud with Leonard Eugène Zacharie Pellissier, Blood Master of the southeastern states, in direct contradiction of the Vampira Carta.” His tone was stiff and formal, and I knew that Leo was right there, listening, exerting all sorts of emotional overtones to the conversation.
For a moment, I froze, that electric stillness of remembered fear and pain, Leo’s fangs buried in my throat. Beast placed a paw on my mind, all claw and spiking demand. We are not prey.
I sucked in a breath that sounded of sorrow as much as remembered agony, and shoved down on my fear, letting Beast trap it beneath her claws as if it were her dinner. The memory of the feeding eased. Beast was right. We are not prey.
His voice even more unyielding, Bruiser said, “We believe that somehow he knows we discovered who he is, and this forced his hand.”
Somehow. Yeah. Like the leak I warned you about that you can’t find. All I had to do was send you a report on Blood-Call and Lucas, and everything changed. But I didn’t say it. I didn’t rub salt in the wound. Go, me. “Okay,” I said to Bruiser and to Beast. “Why blood-feud and not a Blood Challenge? What’s the difference between the two?” I asked, rolling up to my butt, sitting in the middle of the bed, the covers wrapped around me in the chill. I was facing the windows at the front and side of the house, seeing car lights move past one, seeing the bushes move with a slight wind in the other.
“A challenge follows the protocol of the Vampira Carta, all the rules and regulations set therein. A blood-feud is a much older contest, one from before the Carta was written, and it puts aside the Mithrans’ most important legal document. According to historical precedent, there are no established protocols for the feud. Because you killed his Enforcer, Ramondo Pitri, unprovoked, de Allyon can declare blood-feud, according to the old ways.”
It always came back to the man I had killed in Asheville. But I remembered what Aggie had said yesterday morning. “His Enforcer was in Asheville to check me out, to see why I had moved ahead of all of Leo’s people into the rank of Enforcer, cutting you out of the position too. He could have looked me over on the street, in a restaurant, anywhere. Yet he was in my room, his gun drawn, with an illegal suppressor on it. Seems to me he was going off the reservation, hoping to take me out first. Seems to me that I’m lucky to be alive.”
I heard background noises and then Leo said into the phone, “Unfortunately, my Enforcer, we have no evidence of that. When my George suggested that very scenario to de Allyon’s messenger, he asked for proof. We had none to offer, except for the human police reports, which are not sufficient in a Mithran court. Only a Mithran eyewitness would be acceptable to others of my kind.”
“Right,” I said, and though I knew he could hear the sarcasm, he went on, unperturbed.
“Therefore, the demand for blood-feud remains. I have petitioned to the Outclan Council of Mithrans for a ruling on the matter, and they have put it on the agenda for when they meet again in the new year.”
“Meantime we’re all in the crosshairs,” I said.
“Precisely. My George will send you the information we have on the methodologies of blood-feuds.”
I heard background noises again, thinking over the “my Enforcer” and “my George” phrases as the cell was passed around. Leo was staking claims—pun intended—as I had done with my use of the words “my Eli” last night.
George said, “You need to know that de Allyon offered another way out of this. Leo could turn himself and you over and de Allyon would let all the others live. Leo turned him down.”
Yeah. I bet he did. “Wait.” The winter chill of the room made goose bumps rise on my arms. “Let all the others live? Does the blood-feud mean he can kill everyone?”
Bruiser made a sound, very British, all nose and curled lip. “Historically, all of one side or the other died in a blood-feud, all the Mithrans, all the servants, all the slaves. Everyone.”
At last I understood, and lots of things fell into place, including Leo binding me—just after sunset, yesterday. “Well, crap.”
“I’ll send you all the information I have on the precedents and the histories. Most of it isn’t electronic. Most is in the form of letters and reports, so it’ll be photocopied and messengered over later today.
“My master will agree.”
I hated that “my master” crap and wanted to hurt Leo for trying to bind me to him, and for tying Bruiser to him so tightly, even if it did save his life. I felt something pull again in my mind, a compulsion to help Leo, a need to help him, and my anger at Leo flamed out. Leo needed a huge takedown or maybe some sensitivity training, delivered with the pointy end of a stake. I smiled grimly at the thought. My grandmother had been very adept with sharp pointy things. “Later,” I said, and ended the connection.
“What?”
I turned and found Eli in my bedroom, standing in the dark with his back to my wall, the door open beside him. I eyed the door. Then Eli. He was in boxers and a tee. His arms and legs were corded with muscle, his eyes dark in the shadows. He was holding a weapon in each hand, both semiautomatics. “When I lock my door, it’s to stay locked,” I said.
“Not when the house is under surveillance.”
“You mean the guy who appears to be sleeping in the alcove across the street? Small guy, dressed like he has money, but no place to crash?” It was a guess, but Leo’s Mercy Blade had used that doorway to watch my house before. So had Leo.
“You knew?”
“I’m not surprised. Next time, knock.”
“Next time, tell me when we’re being watched.”
I lifted my hand to show that I was prepared. I was holding one of the twin Walthers, the grip bloodred. Eli gave me one of his lopsided smiles. “You look good curled up in that bed, wearing a thin tank and not much else but a gun.” I didn’t reply except for a faint flush he couldn’t see in the dim room. He moved out of my room and pulled my door closed behind him. I flopped back on the bed. “Crap. Crap, crap, crap,” I whispered to the ceiling.
Seconds later the cell rang again. “What do you want, Bruiser?”
I could have kicked myself when I realized what I’d said, and there was a smile in his voice when he said, “Callan was sick, and Sabina has healed him.”
I ignored both my gaff and his tone. “Who is Callan?”
“One of the vampires in a cage at Katie’s. He says he served de Allyon only because his master kept him alive. He has asked to join Leo’s power base and it’s being considered. Leo would like you to speak to him before dawn, find out, if you can, what de Allyon’s plans are.”
“Yeah. Fine. I don’t need to sleep anyway,” I said crossly. I threw the covers away and hung up on Bruiser.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Free Dick Dot Come
I took the back way to Katie’s Ladies—over the back brick wall. Troll opened the door for me before I knocked, as if expecting me. “Little Janie,” he said, his voice like two rocks grinding together.
“Morning, Troll,” I said as I passed him. “Your scalp needs shaving.”
He rubbed his hand over the pale dome as he closed the door on the morning’s predawn light. “When I get time. George said you wanted to talk to the new guest.”
“Yeah. It’s all my idea. Where is he?”
“Upstairs with Christie.”
I stopped and looked back. “Not . . .”