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Authors: Faith Hunter
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with the other weapons of power?” Eli asked softly.
I turned to the former Ranger sitting across the rug from me, his legs stretched out, his fingers laced across his stomach. He looked deceptively relaxed, but I knew better. He could strike across the room almost as fast as a cobra, and he was always armed. Always. “Uncle Sam can’t have them,” I said flatly, my tone soft.
“So you’re the only person who has the right to them?”
It was an old argument, one we had been having for weeks, and we were stuck. “I’m the only person who won’t use them.”
“And if using one would save Angie Baby’s life?”
Angie Baby, Molly’s daughter, my godchild. I knew what he was doing. He was telling me that I would, eventually, find a need for the blood-magic. “Uncle Sam can’t have them,” I repeated. “Not now, not ever. We need to destroy them.”
“Stop it,” Alex said, his voice low.
Eli and I looked at him, but he was staring at his screens, his head down and his eyes hidden behind slitted lids. His lips curled up on one side, a smile so like one of his brother’s understated gestures that it shocked me. And then the half smile stretched into his own wry grin. “I don’t like it when Mommy and Daddy fight.”
I threw a line drive at his head. It would have been deadly had I used something other than a couch cushion. As it was, he did a good imitation of a bobblehead doll before he scooped the pillow off the floor and threw it back at me. And missed. Eli was grinning at our antics—actually showed a hint of his pearly whites. “Bro,” he said to his brother. “You throw like a girl. And, Jane, so do you.”
We both grinned back, Alex flipped him off, and on that happy family-time moment, I stood, stretched until something popped in my back, and said, “’Night.”
“What’s left of it,” the Kid griped.
• • •
I woke at eleven a.m. when a knock sounded on the front door, and I threw on a robe. When the guys moved in, I’d discoveredthat I needed a better robe, so I bought three, all matching, blocky-shaped, black terry-cloth robes, and gave them out at a Sunday breakfast. The guys had rolled their eyes, but they wore them when they came downstairs in the mornings. Most of the time. I tossed my hair over my shoulder and peeked out the window in the door, then looked back over my shoulder at Eli, poised on the top landing, a handgun in each hand. His robe hung unbelted, revealing the sculpted body of a warrior, and the pale scars that had nearly killed him. He had new scars on his throat and chest caused by a vamp eating on him. He didn’t remember much about the event but I did. He said it didn’t bother him, but it bothered me. A lot. I’d nearly gotten my partner killed.
Keeping the remembered horror of that night out of my voice, I said, “It’s Bruiser.”
Eli safetied both weapons, lifted one in acknowledgment, and trudged back to bed. Keeping vamp hours was hard on us all. I remembered the expression in Bruiser’s eyes from the night before and my shoulders drew up. Feeling stupid, or maybe uncertain, which was stupid come to think of it, I pulled my robe together, tightened the belt, and tossed my hip-length black braid out of the way before opening the door.
A peculiar mix of scents met my nose: cooked grease, sugar, tea, green things, citrusy something, and gun oil. Less intense was the smell of New Orleans: water, exhaust, food, coffee, old liquor, spices, and urine. I blinked at the combo, trying to take it all in. Bruiser was dressed in dark brown khakis and a light brown shirt, the sleeves rolled up, his muscled arms showing beneath the cuffs. He was holding the handle of a basket in one hand and flowers in the other. Flowers. Stems wrapped in lavender paper. Like . . .
flowers
. Like from a fancy florist. White calla lilies framing three bright red calla lilies with yellow stamens, all nonaromatic. And a wide frill of catnip in bloom, tiny white
I turned to the former Ranger sitting across the rug from me, his legs stretched out, his fingers laced across his stomach. He looked deceptively relaxed, but I knew better. He could strike across the room almost as fast as a cobra, and he was always armed. Always. “Uncle Sam can’t have them,” I said flatly, my tone soft.
“So you’re the only person who has the right to them?”
It was an old argument, one we had been having for weeks, and we were stuck. “I’m the only person who won’t use them.”
“And if using one would save Angie Baby’s life?”
Angie Baby, Molly’s daughter, my godchild. I knew what he was doing. He was telling me that I would, eventually, find a need for the blood-magic. “Uncle Sam can’t have them,” I repeated. “Not now, not ever. We need to destroy them.”
“Stop it,” Alex said, his voice low.
Eli and I looked at him, but he was staring at his screens, his head down and his eyes hidden behind slitted lids. His lips curled up on one side, a smile so like one of his brother’s understated gestures that it shocked me. And then the half smile stretched into his own wry grin. “I don’t like it when Mommy and Daddy fight.”
I threw a line drive at his head. It would have been deadly had I used something other than a couch cushion. As it was, he did a good imitation of a bobblehead doll before he scooped the pillow off the floor and threw it back at me. And missed. Eli was grinning at our antics—actually showed a hint of his pearly whites. “Bro,” he said to his brother. “You throw like a girl. And, Jane, so do you.”
We both grinned back, Alex flipped him off, and on that happy family-time moment, I stood, stretched until something popped in my back, and said, “’Night.”
“What’s left of it,” the Kid griped.
• • •
I woke at eleven a.m. when a knock sounded on the front door, and I threw on a robe. When the guys moved in, I’d discoveredthat I needed a better robe, so I bought three, all matching, blocky-shaped, black terry-cloth robes, and gave them out at a Sunday breakfast. The guys had rolled their eyes, but they wore them when they came downstairs in the mornings. Most of the time. I tossed my hair over my shoulder and peeked out the window in the door, then looked back over my shoulder at Eli, poised on the top landing, a handgun in each hand. His robe hung unbelted, revealing the sculpted body of a warrior, and the pale scars that had nearly killed him. He had new scars on his throat and chest caused by a vamp eating on him. He didn’t remember much about the event but I did. He said it didn’t bother him, but it bothered me. A lot. I’d nearly gotten my partner killed.
Keeping the remembered horror of that night out of my voice, I said, “It’s Bruiser.”
Eli safetied both weapons, lifted one in acknowledgment, and trudged back to bed. Keeping vamp hours was hard on us all. I remembered the expression in Bruiser’s eyes from the night before and my shoulders drew up. Feeling stupid, or maybe uncertain, which was stupid come to think of it, I pulled my robe together, tightened the belt, and tossed my hip-length black braid out of the way before opening the door.
A peculiar mix of scents met my nose: cooked grease, sugar, tea, green things, citrusy something, and gun oil. Less intense was the smell of New Orleans: water, exhaust, food, coffee, old liquor, spices, and urine. I blinked at the combo, trying to take it all in. Bruiser was dressed in dark brown khakis and a light brown shirt, the sleeves rolled up, his muscled arms showing beneath the cuffs. He was holding the handle of a basket in one hand and flowers in the other. Flowers. Stems wrapped in lavender paper. Like . . .
flowers
. Like from a fancy florist. White calla lilies framing three bright red calla lilies with yellow stamens, all nonaromatic. And a wide frill of catnip in bloom, tiny white
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