Thanks to the little contretemps in sub-five, the meeting with the broadcasters and the camera crew was being held in an office in the Warehouse District on Tchoupitoulas Street instead of at HQ. Because, to cement paranormal relationships, Leo had hired the Bighorn Pack for the job. While Leo often kept his enemies closer than his friends, this time he wanted his Enforcers to check out the company firsthand.
Leo owned the entire block of three-story red brick buildings with tall windows, sun-faded green shutters, and tiny gallery porches. When we pulled up, Wrassler and Derek were standing out front, the big guy in a short windbreaker-type jacket and Derek in a long trench coat, both open to reveal suits and ties in the Pellissier colors of charcoal and dove gray. We parked and exchanged nods, Bruiser and me following them inside. It was too warm and we all tossed coats and jackets, which revealed that Leo’s part-time Enforcer and his head of security were both heavily armed. Good. So was I. I looked around, finding the unisex bathroom, stairs that led up, and a hallway leading to the back exit.
The ground floor was tile throughout in a neutral tone and there was a large conference room to the left of the entrance with a simple rectangular table and wood-framed chairs with fake-leather upholstered seats. The room was set up for PowerPoint and not much else. Bare-bones, very un-Leo-like. Also un-Leo-like was our little group, what might—in a business situation—be called power players. Enforcer, part-time Enforcer, head of security, and former primo were all in one meeting with Del, Eli, the Tequila boys, and the Vodka boys keeping watch over HQ. It was Operation Shutdown, a plan I had devised to cover any situation where the top security brass were all silent or inactive (meaning dead) and the second-level ops people were in charge. They were practicing, while we were dealing with contagious tail-waggers who might have a traitor on board.
There was a coffee bar near the entry, and Derek started coffee. There were certain requirements in Louisiana business and society, and coffee was always near the top. As he worked, he filled us in. “The meeting is expected to last three hours, to include four wolves, discussions of up-front money, advertising, ease of public access, broadcast requirements, and parental controls. The Roberes will be here,” Derek said, “to sketch out the contracts and handle negotiations.”
Wrassler pulled out chairs in the conference room and we all sat as the coffee started to trickle through the grounds. He dropped down with a grunt and a sigh, as if his prosthetic leg was causing him more discomfort than usual. He said, “Leo approved of them, but Bighorn Pack has references from jobs in Mexico City and Guadalajara. They offered a bundled project with an offshore gambling organization.”
I leaned in, finger tracing the pack’s timeline across a tablet screen, through the last few weeks and months. “Mexico references might intersect with known enemies and hazards. Bighorn Pack split after the gigs there. Is it possible that one pack or the other has been working with a new MOC of Mexico?” The previous MOC had been Jack Shoffru, of the tail-biting lizard emblem. There had been a huge power vacuum when Jack died true-dead and the resultant internal war had been bloody. So far as I knew, no victor had been confirmed. “If the wolves had been there and if they worked with the Mexican fangheads, is that a red flag of some sort?”
Wrassler rubbed his palm over his pinkish bald scalp. “I don’t know. But gambling and Mithrans fighting to the death? Perfect for any MOC who might be looking to move into a vacancy created by the Sangre Duello. Or take out the winner. Maybe the wolves are part of a plan to infiltrate. That’s why the meet and greet here instead of HQ. We make a nice target to draw in, ID, and terminate potential enemies.”
“Oh,” I said. We were bait. Nothing new there. I looked around the area. “No security cameras. We got anything here? Something I’m not seeing?”
“No,” Wrassler said shortly. “Not a damn thing.” The fact that he used language in front of me suggested that he was significantly upset about the lack of security measures.
I took another look around. The furnishings were bare-bones—the kind of slick surfaces that were easy to do a forensic cleanup in case of blood spatter. “Sooo . . . What are we doing here?”
Derek brought in coffee and I took a cup of dark roast since tea wasn’t offered. He said, “As we’ve said, Leo wants us to take their measure before he signs anything.” Right. The official stance. But his eyes were worried.
The Robere twins entered and took places at the table, greeting everyone by name, getting out paper and pens, and adjusting suit coats. Both Brian and Brandon—the B-twins, as I called them—were armed, their Onorio scents like caramel and their NOLA accents even thicker. Wrassler turned on the PowerPoint. “Let’s take a look at our research into the Bighorn Pack.” He hit a button and Del appeared on-screen, elegant and severe, her blond hair upswept in a smooth French twist.
“Good morning, everyone. I’m sorry I can’t be there in person. Let’s get started, shall we? First order of business. As you know, the broadcast company that offered the highest bid for filming and distribution rights is owned by the Bighorn Pack. Here’s what we know about them and their internal power structure.” A graph appeared on the screen. I leaned in and listened, but also opened a file on my cell that was tied directly into Yellowrock Security’s databases for a deeper read.
The highest bidder for the televised Sangre Duello was possibly the same bunch who had me in their target sights. The same group who had entered HQ with the werecats and Dominique, the traitor.
Del had dossiers on every one of the Bighorn Pack, but they were slim reading, not much more than age, DOB, ancient driver’s licenses, faded passports, and job specs. And there were no current photos at all. Someone had wiped the web of all social media presence, someone very good at that job. Even Alex didn’t have anything better.
So I actually listened to every word Del said. Not that I’d be running the business end of this meeting. I was here for effect. Leo’s badass Enforcer. While she talked, I braided my hair into a long tail and made sure I was satisfied with my weapons’ placement. Del ended the briefing with the words, “Leo saw the leader of the Bighorn Pack after the event in sub-five. Alone. I do not know what transpired.”
The broadcaster / camera team arrived early, two convertible sporty cars, tops down, pulling up out front. They were young, looking no more than their early thirties, male, fit, and energetic. There was a blond, two gingers, the African Brit with ringlets, from sub-five, and two vaguely mixed-race guys with black hair, and the drivers, who stayed behind the wheel. They had a collective surfer-dude vibe, or a whitewater-paddler vibe, from home. The men had perfect skin, wind-tousled hair, and they were laughing as they leaped over the car doors to the street and sidewalk. I happened to be standing at the door as they landed, holding a bag of trash. I got a good view of them all. They each had a laptop. Thicker than usual. Old models. The top-down cars pulled quickly back into traffic. One of the men turned in a circle, watching the perimeter.
My honeybunch came up behind me. “What?” he asked.
“The black guy is a Brit. He was definitely one of the wolves from sub-five, in HQ to rescue Brute. What do you think?”
“Their suits are inexpensive,” Bruiser said. “Brand-new Brooks Brothers, the Golden Fleece collection, perhaps three thousand each.”
I gulped. Three K did not sound cheap to me.
“Nicely tailored. I think I recognize the hand of Mr. Lee’s alterations in the drape of the suit pants.”
Mr. Lee was a local guy and he handled the alterations of off-the-rack suits for many local businessmen. It was kinda weird that I knew this. I had been in New Orleans for too long.
“English-cut, slim-fit, two-button, dual-vent jackets. No cuffs on the pants. No bulges indicating weapons.”
“But . . .” I stopped. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen a werewolf in a suit. “They bought suits here. Why? They’re from up north.” I sucked a breath as it hit me. “The shoes,” I whispered. “Suits and Timberland hiking boots.”
The smell of his shock hit the air. “The soles are for traction. For an attack.” Bruiser leaped back into the conference room, shouting for Wrassler and Derek to take cover. As he hurdled the depth of the room in a single bound, I tossed the trash bag to the corner and drew a nine-mil, racked a round into the chamber. Drew the other and racked the slide.
“Jane! Get back here,” Bruiser said.
“No.” Back there wasn’t my job. I focused on the hands of the blond man who reached for the door handle. Hairy. Hairy hands. Hairy backs of his fingers. Thick blunt nails.
Werewolf. Pack hunter. Beast flooded strength into me.
The wolf opened the door and I shoved one muzzle into his face, the other to his side to cover the body directly behind him. If he had reacted, he could have trapped one arm and batted aside the other. He could have grabbed my hair braid and snatched me away—stupid, stupid, to have left it down—but he hesitated. Too late. He froze in indecision. The scent of werewolf filled my nostrils. The wolf’s pupils went wide and hard as he breathed in my own scent. I recognized another wolf who had been in sub-five, looking over the Son of Darkness. “Howdy, puppies,” I whispered. “Why don’t you set down the laptops, strip off the jackets, and step inside, slowly. Then you can assume the position. Or I can shoot you and let you shift to heal in front of all the security cameras on Tchoupitoulas Street. Up to you.”
The one with the gun barrel pressed to his head growled. “What the fuck you doing, bitch?”
“Bitch might be polite in your world, but it isn’t in mine. And foul language is definitely not allowed in my sandbox, puppy. Put. Down. The laptops. Take off your suit coats. Drop your cell phones. Now. Or bleed. You’ll be Internet sensations.”
The guy close enough to kiss started to say one of the verboten words and I tapped him with the muzzle. Maybe a little too hard to be polite. “Uh-uh-uh,” I said.
From the back, the voice with the British accent asked, “May I ask why the Enforcer to the Master of the City of New Orleans has drawn weapons on our pack?”
“Two reasons. Three wolves visited the HQ of the Master of the City of New Orleans, intending to steal Brute, a white werewolf in my employ. Then two of you visited with Leo, or so I hear. But somewhere in my recent timeline, a ginger wolf and some local gangbangers attacked me. The gangbangers are dead. The wolf is not, and is in the hands of PsyLED.”
“Jax. It must be,” the same voice said on a sigh. It was the tone of a parent over a defiant and foolish child. “May Artemis strike him dead.” He looked at his group. “All of you. Do as the Enforcer says.”
Glaring, bending his knees, the wolf in my sights set his laptop on the sidewalk at his feet and peeled out of his jacket. He wasn’t wearing a T-shirt under his dress shirt, and ripped muscles and a six-pack were clearly visible. I might have a sweetpea of my own, but I could still appreciate a well-made man. And the fact that he was unarmed. The others followed his lead and I stepped back, into the office building, motioning them after me and into a clump where we could see them all at once. I stopped the last one, the security guy. He was beefier than the others. Hairier too. “You get to stay outside with the coats and stuff.” I let the door close and pretended not to hear his rumbling growl.
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.