Circle of the Moon Page 17

  The house was made of dull brown river rock and a similar color brick. The wood trim was painted in three tones of cool browns and the working shutters were painted steel. I knew a lot about Ming of Glass, but a lot of what I thought I knew was from my church upbringing. The vampire was often used as a threat against unruly children. “You’un be good or Ming of Glass will snatch you’un outta your’n bed and turn you into a demon.”

  The door was open, ice-cold air billowing out, when we reached it. A man wearing a dove gray suit with a scarlet pocket hankie bowed us in and I realized the suit was a tuxedo and the man had to be a butler. He was about five feet, six inches tall, clean shaven, and he was wearing white gloves even in the heat.

  “Master of the City Ming of Glass welcomes you to her clan home. Please accept refreshment. I’ll inform the master that you have arrived.” He bowed again and swept an arm toward a fancy room, what might be called a parlor. A maid, wearing the same color scheme, ushered us in and offered us iced black tea with lemon or mint.

  Rick said, “Thank you. We’d love some. With lemon for me.”

  The offer was not something I should ignore or refuse even though I was already shivering as the sweat chilled on my body. But I didn’t want cold tea. “Thank you,” I said. “But if it would be possible I’d like a cup of hot tea?” And a blanket, which I did not say aloud. Ming’s lair was cold.

  The maid opened her mouth and closed it, glanced at the doorway and the butler who was standing in the opening. Something passed between them and was gone. “Of course, miss. It will be just a moment longer.”

  Rick’s lemony tea appeared in about ten seconds, the dark liquid in a cut crystal glass, carried in on a silver tray. I knew very little about really good crystal or silver, but this was heavy, the glass faceted like diamonds. Rick sat on the small sofa and took his glass in hand. He was all elegant and upper class and . . . Why wasn’t Rick a vampire chick magnet? He fit right in. That was strange.

  Two minutes later, the maid reappeared with a teapot and a pretty teacup and saucer on a wooden tray. Two strings hung outside the teapot lid. I stared at the strings. I’d read a library book back when I wasn’t working for PsyLED. It was a novel about a modern girl from China and her very old grandmother. The young girl had made tea from loose leaves for the older woman as a sign of respect. In the novel, giving guests tea from tea bags was an insult. Ming was Asian, an old, old Asian. Tea in the China of her day would probably have been nearly sacred. While icing tea could be considered a way to blend into local culture, serving it steeped from a tea bag was probably like thumbing her nose at us. I didn’t know enough to do more than guess that Ming was offering a sly disrespect.

  I debated trying the tea. Uncertain, I took my place on a leather chair with carved swan-neck arms, touching the wood surreptitiously, and looked over the large room. It had a high ceiling, attic fans, and stiff-looking furniture. I surveyed the room, looking for the most likely hiding places for the security cameras, just like the nosy cop I was becoming. I figured that a room this large would have at least four cameras, and decided that they were on the bookshelf, on the mantel, over the entrance door, and at the smaller door to the side where the maid had emerged.

  I also decided to not drink the tea just yet. I kept the fingers of my left hand on the wood of the swan-necked chair arm. It was fine wood, tightly grained cherry, from a local forest. I liked it. And it offered me a connection to the land.

  From the doorway I was facing, a black-suited man I identified as Ming’s primo human blood servant—Cai, no last name on file anywhere—and Ming’s vampire security specialist, Heyda Cohen, entered. Cai was about my height, slender, and though there was no data on file about his fighting abilities, I got the distinct impression that he was deadly. He moved like a hunting cat, perfectly balanced, fluid. Rick watched him move and placed his glass to the side as if to free his hands. Heyda was tiny, of Middle Eastern or East Asian descent and very beautiful. She was also awake in the daylight, and though she looked as if she could fall asleep in a heartbeat, being awake by day meant she was quite powerful. A vampire war against God’s Cloud of Glory Church had been fought over her, and I had been partly responsible for her rescue from the churchmen. It was the occasion when I first met Jane Yellowrock, and . . .

  I took a slow, steadying breath. In many ways, Heyda was responsible for all the changes in my life. Heyda’s eyes were sharp when they landed on me and she nodded solemnly, as if in recognition of me as something or someone important. In her eyes I might be. I had been involved in other ways with the protection of the vamps in Knoxville, including the return of Mira Clayton’s adopted, nonhuman child. That rescue was the source of the boon between her boss and me. And yet, Ming offered questionable tea. I could be reading the situation wrong.

  The maid reentered behind Heyda, carrying another tray with tiny scalloped toast points topped with what looked like raw meat, and cucumber sandwiches on white bread. Raw meat? Another subtle insult, this one directed to the cat-man? I inhaled, trying to catch the scent, and thought it might be smoked salmon. That was expensive and so . . . no insult? I wished I knew more about manners outside of the church. The servant set the tray on a tea table, poured tea into my cup, and departed, the butler following her out, leaving Heyda and Cai behind. The two stood at what looked like parade rest, facing the main entrance to the parlor.

  When Rick put down his glass and stood, I followed suit, though I heard and smelled nothing. The Master of the City, Ming Zhane of Glass, entered slowly, her power zipping over my skin like a swarm of ladybugs had landed on me. Ming was dressed in a black silk robe over a scarlet gown, the exact shade as her lips and the same shade as fresh blood. A gold chain hung around her neck, with a ruby pendant the size of a robin’s egg. She was Asian, petite, with almond-shaped eyes of an odd dark honey shade. Her black hair was long, up in a bun just like every other time I’d seen her. Her skin was smooth and pale as ivory, and her lips were painted scarlet.

  The last time I met her, Ming had been only a clan Blood Master. Now she was a great deal more. She exuded all the power, elegance, and lethal intent of an apex predator. She looked totally at ease. And she was up, in control, and alert in the middle of the morning, which told us how powerful she was.

  She would squash us like rats if we let her. I knew. I’d dealt with Ming before and she liked messing with humans and paras she considered beneath her. Like us.

  Cai said softly, “The Master of the City of Knoxville and Tennessee hunting grounds, and Blood Master of Clan Glass, Ming Zhane, welcomes the special agents of Knoxville PsyLED Unit Eighteen to her clan home.”

  Ming had said this visit was urgent, but clearly urgent did not negate protocol or the vampire social niceties when dealing with human law enforcement. Realizing that every word spoken today would have much more meaning than appeared on the surface, I ran the primo’s words through my mind.

  Technically, Ming was her family name and Zhane her given name. She should have changed her family name to Glass when she defeated the clan founder a hundred-plus years ago, but she hadn’t. Keeping her own name, in the Asian manner, stated to the vampire world that she wasn’t one to abide by Mithran or human rules unless she wanted to, and that she was powerful enough to get away with anything she wanted. And the words Tennessee hunting grounds meant something more than being MOC. Ming was claiming the entire state of Tennessee as hunting territory. With Leo Pellissier true-dead and in the grave—or so they said—and Jane Yellowrock, the Dark Queen, in hiding, Ming was stretching her power and influence. Ming might be playing with us like a cat with mice.

  Ming knew us, but Rick introduced us anyway, title to title. “Rick LaFleur, special agent in charge of Unit Eighteen of PsyLED, and Special Agent Nell Ingram. What can we do for you, Ming of Glass, Master of the City of Knoxville?”

  I noticed he didn’t say anything about his werecat titles. And he didn’t mentio
n the Tennessee hunting grounds. That was interesting.

  Instead of answering, Ming sat and gestured us to sit as well. We did, on the edges of our seats. I pressed my left fingers against the wood again and watched as Ming smoothed her silk robe. She said, “I hope the refreshment is to your satisfaction.”

  Rick looked nonplussed at the deflection, but I was ready for it. I lifted my cup and sipped, saying, “The refreshment offered by Ming of Glass is welcome, especially as the Mithran Master of the City is in such penury.”

  Ming lifted a brow in what might be amusement. “Penury?”

  I set down the cup and nudged the tea-bag string with a knuckle. “I know about whole leaves being preferred over the tea dust in tea bags.” I gave a smile as faint as her own and added a bit of church to my accent. “I ain’t a connoisseur of anything except vegetables, but I know my manners. And serving iced tea and store-bought tea-bag tea to a guest is an insult. Right? And Ming of Glass would never insult a guest. So Ming of Glass must be broke.”

  “Broke?” Ming blinked. “Vegetables?”

  “I’ve been told that I grow the finest vegetables in the state,” I said.

  Rick looked at the sweating glass in his hand. He might know all about vamps, but he didn’t know about a woman’s insults. “We’re here for—” Rick started.

  Ming’s hand flew up in a cutting gesture as she interrupted, “My finances are not an appropriate topic of discussion. You will try the cucumber sandwiches.” She indicated the plate of sandwiches. “I should like your opinion.”

  “Oh, I’d never compare my cukes to anyone else’s,” I said. “That would be too unkind of me, would reek of hubris and ego and disrespect to my host.”

  Ming’s deep brown eyes sparkled in amusement. She knew I was insulting her not-so-subtly in return for the tea insult and she was enjoying herself. “But I insist,” she said, her tone dropping into vampire compulsion that felt like warmth and heat and drugged happiness.

  Except it didn’t work on me, especially with my hands on wood. “In that case, I’ll do Ming of Glass the favor of taste-testing her veggies.” I took a sandwich, bit, and chewed. Rick’s face went bland as a vampire’s face, as he caught up with the deeper potential meanings of the preceding conversation. The rest of the room awaited my judgment in fascinated interest. I swallowed and sipped the now-tepid tea in my cup. Set down the cup. Making her wait. I was channeling the mamas’ careful social interactions with the wives of other churchmen. There was an elusive line I shouldn’t cross.

  “It’s quite nice,” I said, staring at the small sandwich in my hand.

  “Only nice?” Ming asked.

  “I’ve always found that lemon cucumbers need a bit more organic material in the soil to give them that zing. The soil you used is just right for Mexican sour gherkins, though.”

  “Organic material?”

  “Dead things,” I said. Rick made a soft grunt of air, Ming’s eyebrows went up, and the room went frozen, offended, silent. I just smiled the sweet kind of smile a churchwoman uses when she’s about to offer a kind, syrupy, polite insult. “Maggots know all about dead things. They make good eatin’.”

  The silence went harder and colder and deadly. A good three seconds later, Ming burst out laughing. Well, it was a little titter of sound, but for her I reckon it was like a belly laugh for ordinary folks. “Mexican sour gherkins,” she repeated. “These are good cucumbers?”

  “They’re actually not a cucumber or melon at all.” I scrunched up my face, trying to remember. “I think they are in the Melothria genus. A little sharper lemon taste. Fewer seeds. A little more . . . tart maybe? But really good with mayo and sourdough bread, which, when made right, has bigger holes than the white bread your cook is using. The holes let the flavors mix better. I have some Mexican sour gherkin seeds I’d be happy to have delivered to Ming of Glass for her gardener to try. It’s a little late in the season to plant outside, but they’ll do okay in a greenhouse. With the right amount of organic material.”

  Amused, Ming sipped her tea. “Would Special Agent Maggot be willing to test our organic mixture and recommend the perfect addition of . . . dead things . . . to improve our vegetables? We expect the Dark Queen to visit us when she goes on progression.”

  “Progression?” Rick asked.

  “To visit her far-flung subjects.”

  Rick said nothing, but Ming’s nostrils fluttered and she smiled slightly. Despite the cigar smoke, she had smelled his reaction to the discussion of Jane Yellowrock—the Dark Queen of vampires, who was not going on any kind of trip that I knew of. Ming was playing games with us, slashing at Rick’s emotions, trying to put us where she wanted us. Ming wanted a favor but didn’t want to be beholden to cops. She shifted her attention to Rick. He set his glass aside. I followed their lead and put down my tiny sandwich. Niceties were over. And I knew without looking that Rick was ticked off with me. There might be words about my taking lead on the social portion of this discussion. I wasn’t planning on backing down.

  Carefully, Ming said, “We have a legal conundrum and wish advice upon how to proceed.”

  Rick nodded once and glanced at me, but when he spoke it was to the Master of the City. “Ming of Glass, I hear, but need to clarify. Do you wish to make an official police report?”

  “What are her options?” Heyda asked.

  Rick considered, leaning forward and clasping his fingers together between his knees. “If Ming of Glass wishes to file a report, she will be speaking to the SAC of Knoxville. Every detail will be entered into a database that might be read by many people in law enforcement.”

  “Ming does not wish her words to be made known to others,” Heyda said. “This will not be an official report.”

  Rick nodded his understanding. While he didn’t seem to comprehend the niceties and backstabbing of Ming’s chitchat, my boss did appreciate the vampire mind-set when it came to power plays. He took off his badge and placed it on the table. I followed suit. Now I was just Maggot, and Rick was just Rick. Not cops.

  “Rick LaFleur hears Ming of Glass.”

  “Rick LaFleur the human? Or the wereleopard, the cat who is second in the leap of the Dark Queen? And first in Gabon, in Africa.”

  I stiffened in surprise. Ming was really well informed and she was getting a lot of mileage out of this meeting and this problem. Or she needed help of a different nature.

  “I am many things,” Rick said evenly. I wondered if Rick was really this calm or if his old undercover reflexes were kicking in.

  “It is to the Dark Queen’s leopard I will speak,” Ming said with a mean little smile.

  Rick didn’t react visibly, but I had a feeling his scent changed enough for the fading cigar smoke to no longer hide it. He hadn’t talked to Jane Yellowrock in months. He had no power in the leap and no permission to speak for Jane, but he was over a barrel. “The beta cat of Yellowrock leap hears.”

  Ming said, “We were attacked last night, our land and holdings and humans. Two humans have been turned or they would have died. Two Mithrans are injured and sleeping with my blood in their veins to heal.”

  “Would Ming of Glass specify what kind of attack?”

  Humans hadn’t died, so we could keep this unofficial, but Ming was pacing a narrow path.

  “It was magical,” Ming said, with distaste.

  Heyda said, “We defeated the attack and strengthened our defenses, but to know such a thing was possible would be a gift to our enemies and an indication that Ming was less powerful than she clearly is.”

  I understood. The vampires were awake in the daytime, which was an indication of might. But they had been successfully attacked.

  “This magical attack,” Rick said. “Please clarify.”

  “A spell of calling was issued, a magical summons,” Ming said. “Two of our number attempted to leave the grounds and their humans end
eavored to stop them.”

  Rick’s body tightened and his eyes glowed a slight green with his cat. He leaned now toward Heyda. He said, “Tell me about this calling.”

  Heyda said, “After midnight, two of our number stood and walked to the doors, moving as if automatons, as if not hearing the calls of their humans, as if they were spelled. The humans tried to intervene and the Mithrans killed their own blood-servants. I was able to stake the Mithrans and thus stop their actions. Ming and I were able to turn the humans. The spell was strong, lasting for hours, during which time other Mithrans fought to remain in their lairs, fought to not answer the calling. Altogether eleven Mithrans were staked. Only two of us resisted the spell used against us.”

  That meant that Yummy had been called too. Yummy was the closest thing I had to a vamp friend. But I couldn’t ask about her right now. I firmed my lips, stopping my words.

  “How many times has this calling happened?” Rick asked.

  “Why do you ask this?” Ming asked. “How do you know this attack has occurred more than the once of which we speak?”

  “Because I have been called to my leopard and once ended up on a riverbank in cat form, near a witch’s circle. A circle of cursing and summoning, one that showed evidence of the presence of Mithrans. I was called last night, and resisted the spell.”

  “A witch curses both were-creatures and Mithrans?” Ming said, her eyes flashing. “What do the local spell casters say to this? We have tried to contact them to negotiate that they cease such attacks. They do not reply to us.”

  Softly, Heyda said, “Ming is ready to go to war with the spell casters. She has called for the assistance of Lincoln Shaddock. He and his people will travel here during the night.”

  Shaddock was the new MOC of Asheville. That meant a lot more vampires in Knoxville than normal and tensions might flare. A war between the paranormal creatures was a very bad thing and to be avoided at all costs.