“You are an evil, evil man,” I said. Eli just laughed.
• • •
A nap was out. No way could I sleep when I had a date . . . a date . . . with Bruiser and martial arts practice afterward at fanghead HQ. Was I supposed to wear a dress and bring sparring clothes to change into? And clothes suitable for a vamp meeting afterward? What kind of dress was I supposed to wear? Something I’d put on for a security gig for the vamps? I wandered into my bedroom and opened the closet. It was . . . full. Or nearly so.
When I moved here, I’d arrived with the clothes on my back and a change of undies, my few other clothes and boots sent on by the postal system in a big brown cardboard box. Back then I’d had more weapons than clothes. I’d lived in jeans and tees and leather. Now. Crap. Now I had a girl’s closet. Full of clothes. Girl’s clothes. Long dresses suitable for vamp ultra-formality. Shorter skirts for the more casual occasions. Pants for the same. Dancing skirts. A fuzzy purple T-shirt with a dragon on it, the shirt charged with healing by a witch friend. It wasn’t a pretty dragon, either, but one of the toothy, village-terrorizing dragons, its body striped like a coral snake, wings spread wide, covered with striped red skin and feathers. So ugly the dragon was beautiful. I had jackets, and a turtleneck sweater made of silk knit. I had shirts. Lots of shirts, some made of cotton that had to be starched, and some of silk, and some that could be tossed in a washer and dryer and looked perfect immediately. I had boots and boots and more boots, and two sets of fighting leathers and three pairs of dancing shoes. Of course I still had guns and knives and the small box of vamp-killing charms that Molly had made for me before I came to New Orleans. I reached onto the top shelf and my fingers found what my eyes didn’t want to see, the box hidden by an obfuscation charm. The box was smooth and beautiful, once my eyes could finally focus on it. I clutched it to me and looked back into the closet.
I had . . . stuff. My heart was beating wildly. The tea I had just drank rose in an acidic swirl. Choking. Burning. I pulled the box tighter against my chest, the wood corners pushing painfully into my flesh, but not grounding me. Not giving me ease.
I had a dry cleaner. A grocery store that delivered. I owned a house.
Holy crap. I had put down roots.
I dropped onto the bed, clutching the box of charms to me, and stared at my closet. A closet full of dresses.
Somehow I had become a . . . a girl.
CHAPTER 5
I Needed That Head Slap
I banged out of the house, needing to be gone. Badly. Or maybe I just needed to get away from the person I had become. Once upon a time, and not that long ago, that would have meant a ride on Bitsa, fast roads, weaving in and out of slow traffic, wind in my hair. Well, under my helmet, but it was the same feeling of freedom. Unfortunately, Bitsa was still in repair, and that meant the SUV.
Which was better than nothing. At first. Then I got stuck in New Orleans’ horrible traffic. Worse, I was pretty sure I was being followed by a black SUV. When I made turns, weaving through the one-way streets to avoid fender benders and snarls, it always showed up again. Or one like it. Fingers banging on the steering wheel in frustration, I pulled out and headed for the river. If the vehicle showed up again, I’d know it.
I meandered a bit to get on the bridge access and crossed the Mississippi, looking down on the churning water and the barges and personal craft. It made me want to get a boat. Like I had time to go play. I reined my stupid brain back in line and checked behind me; the black SUV didn’t show again. But since I was headed in that general direction, I figured I could check in on the clan home property, which was one of Leo’s directives from the meeting the night before.
As I pulled down the tree-shaded drive, the branches arching over the roadway like something from Tara in Gone with the Wind, I wove between workers’ trucks, trailers, and a few beat-up, rusted cars. The SUV Derek drove was also here, so I pulled in behind it, parked, and got out, stretching in the overheated afternoon light before approaching the house. A heat wave was on the way, the temps in the high eighties and the humidity already close to dripping. Living in the Deep South was a sultry experience and not always in a good way. Mosquitoes were buzzing around me and honey bees were invading the blossoms on the azaleas beneath the trees. Birds were calling. It was as peaceful as it ever got around a vamp’s home.
Inside the construction site, the walls rose three stories, the top story under the beams of the mansard roof. Two basement levels were belowground, an uncommon occurrence for a place with a high water table. I still hadn’t asked how Leo was keeping the basements from flooding, but from the tingle of magic on the air, the construction boss had a water witch on payroll.
The workers smelled of cigarettes and old beer and exhaust and unwashed bodies and perfume. A generator had left clouds of exhaust on the air and electric tools had left their own stink. The port-a-potty nearby contained a reek of worse things. But it was all overridden by the smells of fresh wood, chalk, spackling, and turned earth. Faintly, there was brick and mortar, concrete and cement curing—alkaline, earthy scents.
The new house looked nothing like the old one, being brick and stone with a French country feel. It reminded me of the footprint of vamp HQ. I’d been told it was based on the Château de Dampierre, but on a smaller scale. The château must be huge, because this place was oversized enough to make security both a nightmare and easier than normal: a nightmare to wire and put cameras on all the doors and windows and make sure they all triggered an alarm when needed. Easier to position cameras to cover the grounds and easier because I could position safe rooms anywhere I wanted. There were several, one on each level, each with escape tunnels leading out to different areas of the grounds or garage or another exit. During the planning stage, I’d had a ball adding in all the security details and watching the eyes of the architect and the engineers as I moved things around—ignoring things like load-bearing walls and pipes and stuff. They tended to freak. But everything was in place now and everyone seemed satisfied, if not happy.
Today there were probably twenty men and women from all areas of construction represented, electricians and plumbers and carpenters, three guys who were wearing stilts on their boots so they could mud wallboard on the twelve-foot ceilings. It looked like a Larry, Curly, and Moe moment waiting to happen. They were all working hard, no loitering on this job site. I had to admit that when it came to getting things done, Leo’s money and favors talked. Unlimited funds and the ability to help heal a sick loved one meant that he got fast and competent service with a smile.