“I’m not in a jail, I’m not handcuffed or chained to a radiator, and so far I’ve only been lightly beaten.”
Lucky shrugged as if to say, Some things are out of my control.
“Lightly beaten.” Bruiser’s voice was low and cold, and I remembered that he grew up in a time when men didn’t hit women. Not for anything. Bruiser had strong protective instincts, and his tone promised retribution to whoever had hurt me.
“Yeah, but I’m fine. Ducky, remember?” Before he could reply, I quickly recapped the history of Bayou Oiseau, told him about the daughter being held by the vamps.
Bruiser listened silently, but at some point I heard a click and figured I’d been put on speakerphone, which meant Leo was listening. When I reached the end of my soliloquy, I said, “Hey, Leo. I just can’t get away from you, can I?”
“No, my Enforcer. You cannot,” Leo said.
Ooookay. I didn’t like the sound of that at all.
“I remember this town and its people; they wanted only to fight. They refused our counsel and when more important political matters required our presence, we left.” Leo paused and I could almost hear him thinking. Patience isn’t my strong point and it was misery to wait, but I managed it. Go me.
“As my Enforcer, you have my authority,” Leo said.
I nearly cussed. That Enforcer thing had been nothing but problems, and it was all my own fault. Dang it. Me and my big mouth. I wished I had never heard the term. “I don’t work for you, Leo.”
The silence over the phone was electric, and I heard Leo take a breath that hissed. He said, “Consider it a new contract, a short term extension of the services you provided under the retainer you have resigned.”
Without waiting for me to reply, he went on. “You have the freedom to handle this situation any way you wish. If you must stake the leader of this so-called clan, one that has not sworn to me, yet exists inside my territory, then you may do so.” My eyebrows went up, but I didn’t say anything and Leo went on. “I will messenger over the necessary papers, and George will contact all legal authorities who might be involved or who might show an interest.” Meaning the local town cops—if any—the parish sheriff and deputies, the FBI, the Louisiana State Police, probably out of the Lafayette office, and PsyLED, the Psychometry Law Enforcement Division of Homeland Security. Which reminded me of Rick LaFleur and all the unsettled, unsatisfied elements in our not-really-a-relationship. Bruiser was gonna be a busy boy.
At that thought, almost as if conjured, Bruiser came on the line. I heard Leo in the background again, issuing orders. He sounded pretty ticked off, which made me smile. There wasn’t much I liked better than yanking a vamp’s chain. When Leo’s cultured French voice fell silent, Bruiser said to me, “We will attempt to smooth the way for you, Jane. But I will also send Derek and three of his best to assist.”
“Yeah? What am I being paid?”
He named a sum that would let me laze around for six months if I wanted to splurge, ten if I wanted to scrimp a bit. “It’s hazard pay,” he said, which took the joy out of my reaction. Yeah. I was going into unknown territory against an unknown number of vamps on one side and witches on the other—witches who might not like the way I handled things. “Call me daily with an update,” Bruiser said. “If I don’t hear from you for twenty-four hours, I’ll come myself. If you have been… .” He paused as if trying to find the right word and settled on. “Damaged, I will burn a path through the swamp wider than Sherman did during the war,” he promised. “Tell them that. And be careful, Jane.” The connection ended.
“He say you can stake Doucette?” Lucky asked, and his expression went fierce when I nodded. “Who gone burn a path tru’ dis town?”
I closed the phone, knowing that Lucky had overheard a lot of the conversation. “Leo Pellissier’s right-hand meal,” I said. “If I get hurt, he’ll make everyone pay, which means the witches too.” At Lucky’s shock I laughed, but there was nothing humorous in it at all. I had a feeling that Bruiser could be a very dangerous enemy, and it was nice to know he would revenge my death. Nice but cold. Being dead would see to that. So I just had to stay alive all by my lonesome. “Tell me everything you know about the Doucette vamps and everything about the witches. I need to know numbers, strengths, strongholds, and weaknesses. And make sure there are four more rooms available in this B&B. I have some men coming. Oh, and you pay for the accommodations. It’s part of my fee.”
“Dat Leo Pellissier pay you fee. You t’ink you get paid two times?”
I just stared at him and Lucky made a very French gesture, a tossing of one hand in agreement. He leaned forward, fingers interlaced, elbows on his knees, and dished about the vamps. I figured he was giving me everything he had on the vamps, and was holding back about 90 percent on the witches.
I started work the next morning just after nine a.m., when Derek and his guys motored into town in mud-spattered four-wheel-drive Humvees, vehicles last used in a war somewhere and decommissioned. Derek was a former Marine, still tough as Uncle Sam can make a man, and he ran a group of former military mercenaries who had originally banded together to fight rogue-vamps in their neighborhood in New Orleans. He was muscle and tech support too and had the toys and the know-how to do the job.
Miz Onie, an olive-skinned, dark-haired French woman, was agreeable to renting out her entire B&B, and laid out a huge breakfast for me, Derek, and his Vodka Boys: V. Martini, V. Chi Chi, and V. Angel Tit. Miz Onie might have been pushing sixty, but she appreciated the pretty vision of a man in a uniform, even a paramilitary uniform like Derek’s men wore—camo pants and Marine-green tees. She served up pancakes, several rashers of bacon, two dozen eggs, and a fruit bowl big enough to use as a hot tub.
We cleared the dishes of their edible burdens, then the table of the dishes, and laid out topo maps of the area, the guys using weapons to hold down the corners. “Our intel of the area sucks,” Derek said. “This is all Angel could find on GoogleMaps, and the printed stuff is so pixled out it’s pretty much useless. Everything’s flat so we got only rooftops and treetops to go by, and no one has done a street cam drive-by.”
“No streets,” Lucky said. The former Marine had guns on him in the echo of the first word. “Bayou only way. You want in, you go in by boat or gator-back.” He grinned at his own joke, standing in the door, seeming totally relaxed even with all the guns on him. His bare arms were upraised, holding on to the jambs of the door, the flames along one arm dancing with his power.
I rolled my eyes and said, “Meet the father of the kidnap victim.”
The Vodka Boys made half the guns disappear. The rest went back on the table, holding down the maps. Men and their toys. Of course, I had a vamp-killer in a boot sheath and six stakes in my bun, so maybe I wasn’t much better.
Lucky sauntered over, put a hand on the table, and rested his weight on it as the tattoos danced. “Dat right dere,” he tapped a page, “is Clermont Doucette Place.” The rooftop was reflective aluminum, making it hard to see anything except that there were lots of angles and offshoots, as if the Clan Home had been added onto by whim and caprice for years. The house sat on a narrow tongue of land, a bayou winding around the house on three sides and what looked like swamp on the other. Trash was everywhere, piles of unidentifiable things, but what we could see was not going to make any outright attack easy. Docks large and small were positioned around the house, sticking out into the water, and there were a half dozen outbuildings, animal pens, and even a rusted school bus under the trees. I almost asked how they got the bus out into the bayou, and then changed my mind. More important were the boats; at least six were pulled up to the dock and on shore, and I figured the tree canopy hid more. There were a lot of people at the house.