“Smart. That saves you from a head smack for calling me names.”
“Ohhh. I’m so relieved. I was shaking in my boots, babe.”
* * *
We went through the usual security measures at the entrance, and Ro Moore, the self-proclaimed Alabama backwoods hillbilly, boxer, wrestler, and MMA cage fighter, did the pat-down, under the supervision of Brenda Rezk, the security person from Atlanta. It was professional and deft, and I said, “Thank you,” when she was done, shaking my jacket back into place. As I readjusted my weapons, Derek Lee showed up. I hadn’t seen Leo’s other Enforcer and I knew that he and Eli needed to have a chat about what had happened at the Elms and in the cemetery with Edmund, but it would have to wait. “I’m here to see Ming of Mearkanis.”
“Clan Mearkanis no longer exists,” he said, his words clipped. “Ask for something else.”
Derek and I’d had issues from time to time. Tonight, he was gonna be difficult and I didn’t have the emotional fortitude to deal with it like a grown-up. Like Alex. Which was amusing. So I went for my go-to snark and looked Derek over, as insolently as I could. He was wearing a hand-stitched dress shirt, Italian lace-up dress shoes, and cuffed pants with a perfect half break. I know that kind of stuff now because I live in New Orleans and I hang with people who spend gazillions on clothes. His mouth went tight at the way I was looking him over, and I grinned at him, showing teeth as I stepped up to him, into his personal space, so my height would work for me. I tilted my head down, to his ear, and whispered, “I can handle this one of several ways. Eli and I can walk away and go to the scion room alone. I can go to Leo and tell him you’re being a butt-head. Or I can kick your ass. Right here. Right now. In front of your people.”
He stepped closer and whispered back, “You can try, little girl.”
“Stop it,” Eli said, shoving us apart. “What’s wrong with you two?” He twisted his body so we were the width of his shoulders apart. I put another few feet between us, and Derek stepped back too. Formally, stiffly, as if passing along an order to a higher-ranked soldier, Eli said, “Lee. We need to see Ming Zoya, who was once Blood Master of Clan Mearkanis. Do you wish to lead the way?”
Derek frowned and blinked. “Yeah. . . . What just happened?”
“Were you at the Elms tonight?” I asked.
“Why?”
“Crap,” I said, checking out my hands and his. They looked okay, but they might not be. “We got bigger problems than I thought.” Not that I knew what do to about any of it. And then it hit me. “Hair,” I said. “From the locker room shower drain. I always use the one on the end. They got my DNA here.” That was where the witches who attacked me got the stuff that tied the spell to me. And they might have gotten other people’s DNA the same way. Vamps. Blood-servants. Anyone. Everyone.
Eli’s lips went tight as he processed that. “We got an inside man. In HQ. Someone with access to the women’s locker, which means security and housekeeping.”
“Which means,” I said, “that they could have all our samples. Crap. We need to change the protocols and create a more stringent burn policy for everyone. Though it’s clearly too late. Even the EVs could have our samples by now.”
“We’ve been stupid,” Derek said.
I pulled my cell and texted Molly the problem. To the others, I said, “Here’s hoping Molly can come up with something to counteract DNA spells. And fast.”
Derek shook his head as if thinking of the numbers of people in security and housekeeping who might have gone into the locker room. Or maybe thinking of the work that went into creating a new protocol. Silent, he led the way to the scion lair, which was reached by a circuitous route, up- and downstairs, through recently discovered hallways, and, as best I had ever figured, the lair might actually be located between two floors, half in one and half in the other. I nodded to the security guy, who nodded back, one of the many new ones I hadn’t gotten to know yet. He opened the door and we three went inside, into the smell of mixed vamp—almond, lily, and a tiny hint of rot.
Derek stayed with his back against the door and I sent him a quick, assessing look. He was staring down, frowning, thinking. He raised his hands and ran them over his buzzed scalp, his frown deepening. Eli and I went to the cages.
Ming-the-not-sane, not-Mearkanis, now technically just Ming Zoya, though she might not know that, was awake. She had been showered, cleaned up, fed a lot of blood, if her state of healing was any indication, and had been dressed in black silk, the kind of clothing her sister wore. She was curled up on a beanbag-type lounger, and, unlike her fellow caged vamp, Adrianna the nutso, Ming Zoya looked relatively coherent. Her black hair wasn’t yet silken and long, and her scalp showed through in some places, but her face had regrown flesh and she looked mostly human, if a lot older yet than her twin.
Adrianna was dressed in skinny jeans and a halter top, with ballet slippers and a gold chain necklace, and was snuggled down with a furry-looking blanket that reminded me of a bearskin but was synthetic. Her blue eyes crinkled with humor and she laughed when she saw us. It was perfect laughter for a horror movie where the bad guy was a basement-dwelling, serial-killer clown.
Ming said calmly, “She laughs because of the scents you carry. One of you is both cat and dog and human. She finds that amusing.”
Okay. That was interesting and unexpected. I asked, “You know what she’s thinking or has she been talking?”