Derek and I shared a hard glance as he and Wrassler, both with weapons drawn, moved in, and Wrassler patted down the wolves. “They’re clean, Enforcers,” Wrassler said. “I’ll check their clothes and electronics.” I waited while he stepped outside and went through all the suit coats, examined the laptops, and patted down the last wolf, before ushering him inside and tossing in the clothing and electronics.
The door closed. It would have been polite to put down my weapon. I didn’t. Neither did the men at my back. I said, “You want to tell me about this attacker you call Jax? And why we have six tail-waggers at a presentation that stipulated four? Why you’re wearing brand-new suits but unlaced, worn boots? Why you smell”—I drew in a short burst, over my tongue and through my nose—“like battle pheromones and werewolf blood? Like wild boar? Dead meat? And swamp?”
The British man/wolf blinked, thinking.
I added, “Why you were at HQ with the werecats and a werewolf who drew on me? And last and maybe most importantly, why we have a pack in a city, on the streets, with humans, and no grindylow in sight? Eh?”
“I am honored to meet Jane Yellowrock, though the situation seems to be growing more and more unfortunate,” the dark-skinned Brit said. I slid my eyes to the man. He met my gaze, freeing his magic, sharp and musky on the air. They were all pretty, but this one was more. This one smelled of alpha, of power, of dominance. He was mixed ethnicity, African and East Indian maybe, slender, about five-ten, with the muscles of a dancer and the face of a model. “I’m Phillip Hastings, leader of the Bighorn Pack.”
This was the wolf who had taken over several smaller Mountain State packs and consolidated them into a four-state powerhouse called the Bighorn Pack. Who, according to a source in Knoxville, Tennessee, had taken in some gwyllgi—devil dogs—and had the power to meld them all into a single, dual-species megapack. This guy had done that. He was überpowerful. But then the pack had split. Sooo . . . I wasn’t sure how that fit in.
“You were asked questions,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“We brought six wolves because precisely twenty minutes ago, we were attacked in our hotel by a rival pack, led by Jax’s alpha, Prism, and we found it prudent to move. Prior to that, my beta and I went with the cats and the wolf Toots to a prearranged meeting with the Master of the City. The invitation was issued by Asad, who said the MOC was untrustworthy and that he kept a white werewolf chained in his basement. I quickly discovered that both Asad and the wolf had lied. I killed the wolf. I then laid the body of the betrayer at the feet of Leo Pellissier and presented my belly to the Master of the City.”
I blinked. It fit, barely, in the timeline.
“We carry our laptops because they are safest with us and because Adelaide Mooney asked us to provide additional information at this presentation. Because of the attack and the move, we didn’t have time to collate it onto one system, hence we each brought our own laptops. We smell as we do because we hunted last night to run off the frustration of being in a city, of losing our luggage, which is currently in Hawaii, of having to sleep in a hotel instead of our den, and of being in a foreign place, surrounded by predators who Could. Eat. Werewolves. For snacks,” he said, the last words harsh. Softer, he added, “We are accustomed to being the apex predators with land to roam in wolf form.”
It wasn’t succinct, but it was thorough, and I didn’t know what to say to any of that. My scent must have changed in surprise. The skin around his deep brown eyes crinkled with laughter. “Puppies? Tail-waggers? I’m deeply insulted.” But his tone said he wasn’t. He was laughing at me, at a predator with two guns drawn.
“Grindylow?” I asked, not yet willing to let them be okay. “Shoes?”
“For reasons I can’t explain, our furry green executioner chose to stay in the car. Grindys are inexplicable at the best of times and ours is too young to have language, so we can’t ask. Our luggage will fly here tonight, but not soon enough for this meeting, even with the extra day to prepare. We paid a Mr. Lee a fortune to alter off-the-rack suits for us, for this meeting.” Wryly, he added, “We didn’t think about shoes until far too late to go shopping.”
One of the black-haired men said, “I’ve never had a gun pulled on me for a bad fashion choice before.”
“I have,” the other dark-haired man said, with a distinct Southern accent. Maybe Georgia. “Of course, that was back in the nineties, when RuPaul and Elton John were working on ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.’” He batted his eyes at me. “I must admit the ensemble was over the top, even for me.”
I realized he was wearing eye makeup with sparkles. And glittery earrings. And something lacy under his dress shirt. An openly gay werewolf? The fact that all female werewolves were insane and were usually killed on sight, even by males of their own species, and that males could be eviscerated for having sex with humans meant that, if the wolves had sex lives at all, it would be with each other, so the idea of a gay wolf wasn’t surprising. I could practically hear my housemothers at the Christian children’s home where I was raised reacting in judgment. Except Belinda Smith. She had been pretty cool, putting “Thou shalt not judge” as rule number one in the group home.
I took a breath and tasted their magic on my tongue, familiar and yet alien magic. It was similar to Brute’s magic, but long and fibrous, the brown of polished agate. If I had to describe the magic of the Bighorn Pack, it was braided stone, slick and hard and glossy.
“They shot you because of the way you were dressed?” I asked.
“They missed.”
“I won’t.”
“Noted, darlin’ girl. You’re hot. You know that, don’t you?” He air kissed me and I fought my grin, which was surely his intent.
The Brit said, “Would you be so kind as to put your weapons away? I’m beginning to feel unwelcome.” No growl, no attitude.
I realized that the wolf with the makeup had calmed everyone down. He had magic, big magic, and it had curled around us all, calming and palliative. The wolves were big and bad, especially the beefy, hairiest one, but Makeup Wolf could be the most powerful, regardless of his place in the pack. “Not yet,” I said. “Tell me about Jax. I don’t like being shot at.”
“Prism was my beta,” the black man repeated, “and Jax my third. I kicked them and a dozen of their followers out of the pack some time ago for tracking a human girl. She wasn’t hurt, but the grindy flashed steel. Their actions were grave enough for me to act, and harshly. The wolves who participated in the tracking of the human challenged me. There was a battle and the remaining wolves were taken to the edge of our territory. They disappeared.
“I did not know they were here until I was approached about a werewolf in captivity to a vampire, something no wolf would ignore. However, one might suppose that their fledgling pack decided to ruin our entrée to Leo Pellissier and to New Orleans. The banished wolves knew about the trip and our purpose.” He shrugged.
“Before we make nice-nice, there’s one question you didn’t fully answer, Phil. How did you get into the basement at Mithran Council Chambers?”
His mouth tightened and his wolf eyes glowed with irritation. “A vampire woman led us and the werecats to the basement. The werewolf was roaming free, there by choice. Cats are liars, disloyal by nature, and so was the female vampire. I now assume Prism arranged for us to be there in the hope that it might appear we had allied against Pellissier. We have not,” he said distinctly. “Fortunately, the MOC accepted our bellies as proof we were not involved with the cats. We have signed loyalty agreements and discussed a potential business contract to be negotiated by Leo Pellissier’s primo and Onorio attorney.” He tilted his head, his long ringlets shifting like hound ears. “And other agreements granting us the right to broadcast the Sangre Duello. Clearly Pellissier did not fully believe us when we yielded to him, hence this armed standoff, like something from an American cowboy movie.” He shrugged again. “I would
not have believed us either.”
Phillip huffed out a breath, sounding like a large playful dog, and said, “And this meeting, while difficult under the circumstances, is still necessary. We met with the Louisiana Gaming Control Board this morning and we have broadcast and distribution agreements signed, notarized, and filed.” Phillip managed to look smug as he said that last part. “Pellissier will do well by a financial agreement with us, and we gain a safety net from a rogue pack by this arrangement.”
“The female vampire who led you to the basement. Did you know her? Did you know her position among the vampires?”
“No. She reeked of fruit. Blond, glacial personality. Beautiful.”
Vamp games. Hated ’em.
And then it hit me. “Leo thought the other werewolf pack would wait to attack and follow you here. Attack all of us here at once. Where his armed people would be prepared to protect you.”
Phillip shrugged slightly. “Or he thought we had lied and that all of the werewolves in New Orleans would attack you here, and that you would kill us all at once, freeing him to negotiate another deal should we prove disloyal.” Phillip stared at me, a wolf’s predator gaze. “I gave him my belly. I am loyal.”
I stepped back, slowly went through the proper procedures to safe my weapons, and tucked the extra rounds into my sports bra. Makeup Wolf was watching and said, “Oh, honey, do you have one of those new tactical women’s sleeveless holster shirts?” At my blank look he said, “I have one in black mesh lace. It is to die for. Of course it’s with Queen Bitch, lost in the belly of a plane somewhere in Hawaii. My QB got to go to Hawaii without me. I am so jealous.”
“Queen Bitch? Hawaii?”
He fluttered his hands and explained, “Queen Bitch is my wardrobe and my stage name.” He stuck out his hand for a shake. The hand wasn’t hairy, which meant he had been body-waxed since his last shift. Just . . . ouch. His nails were painted in a sparkly black that matched his hair.
I took his hand, which crushed mine in a manly competition, and I had to pull on Beast’s strength to avoid bruising.
“Love the hair,” he said, beaming. “It’s so eighties Cher.”
I thought it was a compliment. Maybe. And that also, he might be telling me he was a . . . drag queen?
New Orleans had had drag queens openly onstage for decades before the rest of the nation even knew what the flamboyant stage performers and cross-dressers were. I had never been around a real honest-to-goodness drag queen; not even Deon, Katie’s chef, claimed to be a drag queen, just a queen, and there was clearly a difference. Gender pronouns for drag queens could be fluid, and I suddenly didn’t want to insult. “Okay. How do I address you, pronoun-wise?”
“When I’m properly dressed, you will call me QB, which I totally am. And the proper pronouns would be she and her.” He gave me a girly hand flap with the crushing paw. “When I’m in a suit, I’m he and him. Since we’re all besties now, you can call me Ziggy, my puppy name.”
They had given Leo their bellies. Therefore they were puppies to Leo and to us as well. Crap. Puppies.
Derek cursed softly under his breath. Ziggy batted his eyes at Leo’s other Enforcer. “And you must be Derek. Honey, you are gorgeous. I’ve always had a thing for the lean, mean military man.” Derek glared but shut his mouth.
Phillip asked, “Do you know where Jax’s wolves are?”
I said shortly, “Jax is under PsyLED control. I have no idea about the others. Why was I attacked by Jax?”
“There’s not one simple reason, but rather a plethora of them. Jax’s sire died in New Orleans some months ago, in a bar called, I believe, Booger’s.” His tone went faintly disgusted at the name. “It’s said he died of a blade at the hands of a woman called Jane Yellowrock. As a young wolf, he watched Leo and George Dumas”—his dark eyes flashed Bruiser’s way—“hunt down and kill a wolf who had bitten a human. He hates bloodsuckers, but that hatred exploded when he heard that Leo Pellissier might have a werewolf chained in his basement. He came for vengeance, and because he cannot control his wolf even in human form. And he is a very, very powerful wolf.”
I had a feeling Phillip had left something out, but I went with what I had so far. “I killed a lot of wolves back then. They were led by a bitch in heat and the entire pack was violently psychotic. Leo hunted down and killed a lot of wolves back before the U.S. had grindylows to keep the peace.” No one shifted stance or changed scent, so my blunt statements weren’t a surprise.
“PsyLED has Jax,” I repeated. “He’s out of the picture. How many more are going to attack me?”
“Jax will not be in custody for long, unless they keep him drugged or full of silver. He doesn’t have the emotional control to be an alpha, but he has . . . skills. He’ll be back on the streets in less than twenty-four hours.”
“You seem pretty sure of that,” I said as Bruiser pulled his cell and started texting, probably texting Rick or Soul about the danger of the ginger werewolf in custody.
“I am,” Phillip said distinctly, his magic sharp as broken stone on the air. “My drivers left the cars and went hunting. Bighorn will find this misbegotten pack and teach them obedience.”
I almost said, Newspaper to the snout, but I managed to hold it in. “This is Pellissier’s city. If you need assistance, just ask.”
Phillip tilted his head, a doggy gesture. “I would be honored if the white wolf would join us in this quest.”
“I’ll have someone ask him. I don’t tell him what to do. No one does. Would the other pack join with the EuroVamps?”
Phillip hesitated. “Possibly. I haven’t had time to address that possibility. Scout, Bear, go help track. Make sure the grindy is with you all.”
“Yes, sir,” both wolves said. They grabbed their gear and left the room.
I gestured to the conference table. “For now, we have contracts to discuss and security measures to consider.”
Wrassler brought in more chairs. We sat around the table, Ziggy taking the chair beside me so we could “girl talk,” though I think he wanted to be there so he could magic me down if the need arose. His presumption should have ticked me off, but it didn’t, which was probably a big indication of his considerable magic.
We all introduced ourselves, with proper names, but Ziggy filled me in on the puppy names. There was Boomer, Scooter, Champ, and the two who had left to hunt, Scout and the hairy one, Bear. The drivers were Bandit and Rocky. Phillip—Champ for obvious reasons—ignored Ziggy’s not-so-sotto-voce intros. Ziggy was the only openly gay wolf or drag queen in the group, but I guessed there would be others.
Champ made it clear to us that the pack swearing to Leo meant that Leo’s share of the profits in the broadcasts had gone way up, that his problems dealing with the gaming board had just disappeared, and most importantly, that the pack would stand by us should war with the emperor, Titus Flavius Vespasianus, result from the outcome of the duel—no matter who won or lost.
Leo was expanding his power base in the vamp way, getting others to do his dirty work—like tracking down dangerous wolves in his city—while also using the same people to accomplish negotiations with the powers that be in pay-per-view and the gaming board. The MOC had been playing five-card stud with life and undeath again.
And . . . because there were no European vamps onshore to cause trouble, until we had a venue for me to secure, people for me to vet, or werewolves to kill, I was twiddling my thumbs. I needed something to hunt. I wondered if Scout and Bear wanted company tracking the errant werewolves. I texted Alex a recap of what had happened and sat there, thinking about where I’d go if I was a werewolf pack on the loose in NOLA, waiting to parley with the EVs and join the war against Leo. It was unlikely that the Zips would take in a pack who had already cost them two gang members. But the rogue wolves had made the acquaintance of Dominique and therefore with the vamps who were turning against Leo. They might
be given a lair to sleep in. Except that Alex had all the known lairs wired for video and audio. He’d have caught something by now, even if it was just a misspoken phrase.
However . . .
There was a huge homeless population in NOLA, hundreds, maybe thousands, living under the overpasses, sleeping in alleys, in private gardens. If I was looking to hide out, I’d join the men and women there. Yeah. If I was an evil werewolf, I’d go hunting and bite a few humans. While an overworked grindy was busy with the Bighorn Pack, I’d make a bigger pack. This sucked.
CHAPTER 7
I Failed You
The meeting was cordial and useful, especially when we brought Alex on electronically, face-to-face, to discuss the possible necessity of setting up satellite transmission of the fights and to settle on the best ways to financially secure the online gambling transactions.
The wolves were extra affable and congenial, probably because of Ziggy’s antics, pack dynamics, and the stronger wolf—Champ—showing Leo his belly. Whatever the reason, the groups merged well; Leo had planned it all out, giving us a path to meld us into a single pack under my leadership. And—despite Ziggy’s claims—because I was the only woman in a group of men, that made me the queen bitch. Werewolves followed the queen everywhere.
The appointment ended when Bruiser got a call and headed back to vamp HQ.
I saw the rest of us out, which meant time I had to chat—not my forte, especially in the face of Ziggy’s friendliness. I turned down an offer of a drink at Café Lafitte In Exile with the Bighorn werewolves, dancing at Oz, and hunting rogue werewolves. The café was low-key and unpretentious, a place where local gays socialized, according to Ziggy. Oz was another matter entirely, with bar-top go-go boys, high-energy music, and a laser show that was reputed to leave the dancers in a frenzy. “You love to dance. I can tell,” he said, dragging a fingertip across his lower lip. “And then we can hunt Prism down and eat his liver.”