Across the street, a window lit as morning made itself known. Other lights followed. The tenants over there had regular windows, and I could see shadows of people moving here and there through their blinds.
On my eighteenth birthday, Aunt Jane had officially brought me into Clan Yellowrock. The clan leader had said, “My blood is your blood. Your blood is mine. My people will defend you to the death, for as long as you live. Welcome to Clan Yellowrock, Angelina Everhart-Trueblood. Iclaimyou.”
Even before that, as the queen’s goddaughter, I’d grown up with a position at court, and in Aunt Jane’s heart. But the official ceremony of an adult brought into a clan? That had been a much bigger deal than the claiming when I was a child and a bigger deal than the day I became a titled princess.I claim you.
It gave me protection against a lot of things, because the queen’s vengeance was legendary, a list of kills that boggled the mind. And that retribution, that promise of a fate worse than death, followed by an even worse dying, had kept all but a few desperate people from trying to collect the bounty on my head. But there were always the stupid ones.
Until now, I had managed to handle all my enemies.
Now an old Rus witch-vampire was working in concert with humans, a local blood clan, and a powerful possessed witch-vamp. And each member of the cadre had a tie to one or moreof us. People were dying. We had been attacked twice in one night by demons. Edmund was in Asheville, an ocean away from where he was supposed to be.
For some reason the emperor had lingered at the queen’s court. I didn’t know why.
Demons were involved for the first time since the end of the Witch War.
Walter had unfurled the queen’s banner to keep us safe, though he hadn’t claimed us beneath it.
The queen did nothing by chance. She could have sent a unit from Clan Yellowrock. She sent a royal one. She was laying the groundwork to provide us with every protection she possibly could, even if it meant we would no longer have the autonomy EJ and I, and even Walter, craved. And yet she put us in charge, making the protection a cocoon rather than a web. And she hadn’t raised her banner atop the building, claiming it as territory. For now.
There had been a major shift in royal policy when I first declared my desire to marry Asshat and live in Chattanooga, on my own, without bodyguards, instead of in Asheville, at court and near my family coven. I had walked away to marry, and I had never gone back, even when that marriage went ass over teakettle. I had stayed free. Free-ish.
My hard-fought independence was being undermined. I didn’t want to live at court, sheltered, shackled, chased by paparazzi, chased by old vamps wanting to marry me for the power of my name and my connections. All the machinations, intrigues, constant schemes.
More lights came on across the way. A child raised the blinds and looked out onto the snowfall, waving arms, excitement in their body language at the sight of snow. They pressed their face against the window to see better.
Curious how my damaged hand would react, I placed my open left palm on the chilled invisi-glass and the other on an iron I beam that was part of the framework of the building. With one hand, I drew in the energy of the storm. With the other, I shoved that energy into the building’s wards, which were a parting gift from my parents and coven. The wards used passive magic to strengthen themselves, but sometimes they needed to be filled to capacity. Like now. And the fastest way to do that was to use my body as the conduit, which hurt, like putting my hands in an oven.
Magic glowed and crackled as it passed through me, aching as it arced. I leaned into the stinging discomfort, resting my forehead on the glass, breathing through the pain of harnessing raw magic. My left hand was under the impression I had just shoved it against red-hot iron, but I gritted my teeth and forced the transfer of power, thinking of the people I had to keep safe now.
EJ. Walter. The new human team and an extra vamp to feed. My family. What if my enemies hurt them to get at me? To get at Walter? With Edmund in the States, these ties were in one ungainly ugly bubble. And I had to find our kidnapped woman, Ivyanna.
Worse, my bloodsucker opponents were older and more powerful than I had dealt with since I was a child. With so many enemy vampires aligned, they’d each have their own agenda, besides whatever single overriding goal they’d all agreed on. And now that goal, whatever it was, might have changed. Being forced to eliminate the danger of a loose cannon like Londyn increased the threats and rushed any preexisting timeline.
Killing Londyn and our client might have exposed a crack in the enemy’s coalition.
The Firm’s client was dead.
Our subject, Ivyanna Holmes, was still missing. That’s where I needed to work.
My unicom dinged. I turned from the wall, releasing my injured hand. The pain and energy zinged out from the tips of my fingers like lightning. I made a fist. My hand looked, oddly, marginally, better. A little less dead.
Letting the excess power and the pain drain out of me, I felt, overall, refreshed and full of magic, as if the storm had refilled my own reserves while I secured the wards.
I looked at my unicom. Villetti’s name was on the screen. An incoming call. My sense of peace froze. I touched my wristband, audio only. “Villetti,” I said, neutral.
“I have twoel tipicos, one with avocado, one with cream cheese.”
El tipicoswas a typical Salvadoran breakfast. We used to eat them. In bed. Back before Leandro Villetti had vanished from college, without so much as a goodbye, disappearing into the war machine.
I had been devastated. And then, before I could deal with his abandonment, I had been seduced by a charming vampire, aka Asshat.
I had learned one vital lesson: I would be betrayed by men intent on sex.
“El tipicos?” Leandro said. “So good they melt in your mouth? And, you know, maybe not a knife in my ribs?”
The memories of Villetti were mostly good. Some wereverygood. “You here as the detective or as—” I almost saidas my boyfriend. Changed it on the fly to “—a civilian?”
“Totally a civilian,” he said, the casual Americanism reminding me even more of college. And thoseel tipicomornings in bed.
