“For helping me get over whatever that was with Walter.”
“Walter is a good man. He can be a real pain in the butt, but he’s a good man.”
“And he isyourgood man?”
“Lover? God no. Bodyguard. EJ and I are his assets.”
“Ummm. Have dinner with me.”
Before I thought, I said, “Okay.” Surprised, I pressed my lips together, startled at my reply. “Tomorrow. If I’m still alive.”
“Pardon?” he said, his accent heavy with shock.
I pulled off Villetti’s jacket and tossed it at him. He caught it after it hit his chest. “I’m heading home to change into fighting gear,” I said, “and then I’m driving to Asshat’s place carrying the queen’s banner. Once there, I’ll kill a vamp or two. There’s the unlikely chance someone will be a better fighter than I am.” I figured that was the best parting line I’d ever get, because Villetti’s mouth did that Italian thing of making a soft O, his hand out, demanding a question. I walked past the hidden safety nook and into the dining room, where I gathered cloak and staff. When I left the house, EJ and Walter were on my heels.
I slammed the car door and turned on the heated seat, shivering. I would not think about Villetti. I would not.
I tried to figure out how to tell Walter about his brand, if he didn’t already know…If he didn’t know, and if it contained a curse or ageas, would telling him about it activate it? I had to tread lightly. I also had to find a way to ask the intensely private man to let me study that magical working on his face. That would not be an easy conversation.
I didn’t speak on the way home. No one did.
Chapter Eleven
Angie
I stomped into the boots. I hadn’t worn the specially designed fighting armor since I beheaded The Bitch Tiffany. That was how I always thought of her. The Bitch Tiffany, like a title or something.
I had always wondered why I didn’t feel anything about having killed the vamp. I had killed several times to protect myself, back when I was being hunted for the bounty on my head. I had used my magic then, as much as my blades or semiautomatics. But no matter how my enemies died, I felt nothing. It was possible that I was broken, somehow, deep inside, where psychs said trauma hid. Most warriors I knew felt bad about the things they had to do in the war. EJ did. Villetti did. Guilt was deep in Leandro’s soul, peering through his eyes like another being, hiding in the shadows.
I turned to the mirror. The armor and boots looked good. They had been designed by the queen’s lady-in-waiting and Lady Armorer, Quint, in a brown so deep it was nearly black. Nearly. But not quite. The queen’s personal psychopath had called it “the shade of dried blood on a moonless night.” I liked it for two reasons: the shade set me apart from the queen’scourt and the queen’s family, and it made my pale red hair look more vibrant, my might-as-well-be-gray eyes bluer.
My injured hand looked strange. White skin, starting to crack and peel, and where it was sloughing off, the flesh beneath was yellowed and dry. Numb, but it had full mobility and strength. I clenched a fist. Shrugged. It hurt but it worked, and that was all I cared about.
I streaked on vivid red lipstick. The real stuff, not a glamour.
I adjusted one of the straps holding my longsword in place. Plopped the headset on, the face shield completely clear, shaped to my head on a 3-D printer. It wasn’t dark or clunky, one size fits all, but fully custom, with multi-tech lenses that could be tapped away with a touch or voice command. Tech backup for my magic, infrared, and low light.
I had to tell Walter about his brand. He could be a danger to himself and others. But when? And what words to use? And, did I need a stake handy in case he reacted badly when I told him?
I pulled on my precog gift, uncertain. Then calmer, then steady. Everything I had done so farfeltright.
I threw the deep neon blue cloak over my shoulders. Again. Instantly the ache in my bones increased. I stuffed the pockets with healing amulets and pushed two activatedpain reliefamulets into my bra. They worked for only about four hours and were hard as hell to make, but they were better than Tylenol. In the mirrored wall, I looked pretty badass, with my hair braided tight and twisted into a queue at the back of my head. No tiara, which made my head ache like I was sitting beneath a ringing bell, clanging in time with my blood.
Reconsidering, I pulled on gloves to hide my damaged hand. Made a fist. As long as I didn’t have to use the staff anytime soon, my skin, muscles, nerves, and circulation could heal overtime. But I had a bad feeling that I would have to use the staff again, and soon. I cut a small patch of the glove off over the pad of my left thumb, leaving the skin bare so I could activate the weapon as needed, but provide some protection to the rest of my hand.
I chose my magical weapons carefully. The staff, of course. A dozen amulets. One was a superstrongblood hedge,mygauntlet hedgethat could keep out a being possessed by a demon, or, for a short time, a demon itself. Areversehedge of thorns, that was the inverse of a regularhedge, the kind that trapped people and, if I was lucky, slowed down some small sprite energies until I could deal with them. Three medium-strengthblood hedges. Threeobfuscationcharms, so we could walk in unseen if I decided not to make a spectacle. With the charms we’d not be invisible, but close enough. A dozen morehealingcharms. One to make blood clot like a brick. One to make it not clot, and flow free. Both could be weapons. All thehealingscould be used as weapons. Each type of amulet went into a specific pocket, and I remembered where each kind went. Muscle memory. Battle memory.
Always before, I had fought for myself. Now, it was also the queen’s business.
It was three a.m. when I left my apartment.
EJ
EJ entered his apartment, George leashed at his side. He released the dog, added water to one bowl and fresh food to the other. The Basset Hound slurped water, his ears in the bowl, which then dribbled on the floor. He chuffed down the food without chewing. The hound lumbered back to his bed, where he flopped in an ungainly pose and grunted until he gotcomfortable. “Good boy,” EJ said. George wriggled just a bit to show unmitigated joy and closed his eyes. He was snoring before EJ turned away.
Tossing the half-dried bloody clothes into a hamper, he unfolded the paper Angie had slipped to him. On it was a note, hastily written, ignoring lines and neatness, and badly smeared. EJ touched a letter and realized it was likely eyebrow pencil or something similar, grabbed in a hurry. It said:
I’m sorry. They said they’d kill the children. They have Ivy with them under stasis. They’ll use her if they have to. When you find them, you’ll find her. I’m praying she’s still alive. They have
