Broken Soul Read online

  I wanted him too. I always had.

  But there were so many things that lay between us: I’d taken a mate recently and it hadn’t worked out so well. Bruiser had helped to hold me down so that Leo could force a feeding and attempt to bind me. That he’d had no control over his own body at the time didn’t help a lot, not on an emotional level. Also, Bruiser didn’t know about Beast. I wasn’t sure I was ready to take a man to my bed without telling him about Beast. Without telling him everything about me. And then there was Bruiser’s Onorio status and what that might mean about him and his life and his future. More secrets. There were chasms of the unknown between us right now. Deep and dark chasms, full of shadows and wraiths and the gloom of darkness.

  • • •

  After the meal, Bruiser washed the dishes and poured us both something more familiar—me a big mug of my own tea, with Cool Whip and sugar, just the way I liked it, and himself a mug of coffee, from the espresso machine in the butler’s pantry. Holding the mugs, he gestured to the living room. “Shall we talk?”

  I wasn’t sure I could, exactly, or not right now. But I also couldn’t find a good reason to refuse, so I led the way and sat on the sofa, curling my legs under me, and accepted the mug, sipping, waiting.

  “Leo received a new communiqué from the Mithrans in Paris,” Bruiser said, his voice easing into a more businesslike tone. “Because of the contents of the letter, he intends to train his people in European Mithran tactics and fighting methods, lessons to begin at nine thirty tonight. Eli and you and I are to attend. A meeting and discussion about the European Mithrans will follow.”

  “I thought he threw you out today.”

  “He did.” Bruiser’s gaze met mine above the rim of his cup, his eyes filled with amusement. “Unlike Grégoire, who chose to keep his Onorios with him, and they chose to stay, I am no longer part of Leo’s personal servants. He will not have a live-in whom he cannot bind.”

  “Leo has trust issues?”

  “He’s stayed alive for five hundred years because of those trust issues. So, yes. However, I know more about the ins and outs of Leo’s personal household and the council’s day-to-day activities than anyone alive. For that knowledge, I am still a valuable employee to the New Orleans council and to Clan Pellissier, and I was sworn to that service from an early age.” He sipped, thinking, and shrugged. “As Onorio, I have other, less specific uses and great value. So, after you left, Leo and I struck a bargain, one I found exceedingly beneficial financially. I will continue to be employed by the clan, under one-year contracts, for a period of three years, at which time we may renegotiate the terms of my employment or I may choose to leave the clan entirely.”

  “Fancy words for he offered you a lot of money and you took it.”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “Sooo, you go to work there every day but you sleep somewhere else?”

  “I have a small apartment on St. Philip Street, just around the corner.”

  “The Saint Philip Apartments?” I was getting to know the Quarter and the businesses and people who comprised it.

  “Unit eleven,” he said, sounding wry. “I rented it the last time Leo threw me out. I moved the last of my everyday things into it this morning.” He shrugged. “It’s only nine hundred square feet, but it’s one of the few units to be completely renovated. It isn’t quite the exquisite accommodations of a lair of the Master of the City of New Orleans, but for the moment it’s mine, and comfortable enough.”

  “Ah.” There seemed to be not much of anything to say to that.

  He seemed to notice the uncomfortable silence that followed, and said, “And on that pithy note, I’ll take my leave. I’ll see myself out. Until tonight.” Bruiser left his mug on the small table beside the couch and strode toward the door. He left me sitting sleepily on the sofa, a cooling mug in my hands, and a glorious memory of his backside clenching in the lightweight cotton pants as he left. Bruiser had a really great butt. “I’ll pick you up at six for an early dinner. Wear a dress.”

  As the door closed, I murmured into my mug, “You could move back in here. We have an empty room upstairs.” And felt how the words tasted, how they felt on my tongue, the texture of the invitation, and the faint thrill that ran along my skin. “Or maybe not. Maybe I’m not ready for a man in my life again.” And then I heard his parting words. Dinner? In a dress?

  My cell vibrated and I looked at the screen to see a text from Soul. Must rearrange current case. Will be in NOLA soonest. Which told me little, but did at least indicate that she was taking me seriously.

  A moment later, I smelled Eli on the stairway. He moved like a cat on his bare feet, and he’d lived here long enough to avoid the squeaky spots on the old stairs, but there was nothing he could do about the air currents, and with the AC on, his scent preceded him. “Hey,” I said.

  He leaned around the corner. “Is it safe to come in?” I nodded, and Eli went straight to the espresso maker. He was wearing jeans and layered T-shirts, and managed to look deadly even without shoes. Moments later, he sat across from me in the chair he favored, his hands holding his own mug. “You want to talk about it?”

  I don’t know what I’d expected, but an offer to dish wasn’t it. My eyes widened in reaction and Eli flashed me a quick glimpse of teeth. “I overheard part of that. The floors are uninsulated, you know. And that was a proposal if I ever heard one. Which is interesting since I believe you two will be having your first official date tonight.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” The words said themselves before I could think them through. “It’s not a date. I mean, no ring, no lovey-dovey words, no—”

  “Flowers. Catnip. Food. Tea. And a knife that might be worth thousands. Dinner and a dress. Proposal and a date night.”

  My eyes stayed wide and I hunched my shoulders. “No,” I breathed. “He didn’t propose. He didn’t. I don’t want him to propose. I don’t want him to love me. I’m not ready to be shackled into a relationship.”

  Eli’s grin widened, taking on a teasing twist. “A proposal tailored just for you. Thoughtful, reasoned, romantic. As much as food, flowers, and knives can be.” When I said nothing, Eli added, “Maybe it wasn’t a marriage proposal. But it was a something proposal. I think you just have to decide what that something is.” He stood and moved silently to the stairs.

  “You are an evil, evil man,” I said. Eli just laughed.

  • • •

  A nap was out. No way could I sleep when I had a date . . . a date . . . with Bruiser and martial arts practice afterward at fanghead HQ. Was I supposed to wear a dress and bring sparring clothes to change into? And clothes suitable for a vamp meeting afterward? What kind of dress was I supposed to wear? Something I’d put on for a security gig for the vamps? I wandered into my bedroom and opened the closet. It was . . . full. Or nearly so.

  When I moved here, I’d arrived with the clothes on my back and a change of undies, my few other clothes and boots sent on by the postal system in a big brown cardboard box. Back then I’d had more weapons than clothes. I’d lived in jeans and tees and leather. Now. Crap. Now I had a girl’s closet. Full of clothes. Girl’s clothes. Long dresses suitable for vamp ultra-formality. Shorter skirts for the more casual occasions. Pants for the same. Dancing skirts. A fuzzy purple T-shirt with a dragon on it, the shirt charged with healing by a witch friend. It wasn’t a pretty dragon, either, but one of the toothy, village-terrorizing dragons, its body striped like a coral snake, wings spread wide, covered with striped red skin and feathers. So ugly the dragon was beautiful. I had jackets, and a turtleneck sweater made of silk knit. I had shirts. Lots of shirts, some made of cotton that had to be starched, and some of silk, and some that could be tossed in a washer and dryer and looked perfect immediately. I had boots and boots and more boots, and two sets of fighting leathers and three pairs of dancing shoes. Of course I still had guns and knives and the small box of vamp-ki
lling charms that Molly had made for me before I came to New Orleans. I reached onto the top shelf and my fingers found what my eyes didn’t want to see, the box hidden by an obfuscation charm. The box was smooth and beautiful, once my eyes could finally focus on it. I clutched it to me and looked back into the closet.

  I had . . . stuff. My heart was beating wildly. The tea I had just drank rose in an acidic swirl. Choking. Burning. I pulled the box tighter against my chest, the wood corners pushing painfully into my flesh, but not grounding me. Not giving me ease.

  I had a dry cleaner. A grocery store that delivered. I owned a house.

  Holy crap. I had put down roots.

  I dropped onto the bed, clutching the box of charms to me, and stared at my closet. A closet full of dresses.

  Somehow I had become a . . . a girl.

  CHAPTER 5

  I Needed That Head Slap

  I banged out of the house, needing to be gone. Badly. Or maybe I just needed to get away from the person I had become. Once upon a time, and not that long ago, that would have meant a ride on Bitsa, fast roads, weaving in and out of slow traffic, wind in my hair. Well, under my helmet, but it was the same feeling of freedom. Unfortunately, Bitsa was still in repair, and that meant the SUV.

  Which was better than nothing. At first. Then I got stuck in New Orleans’ horrible traffic. Worse, I was pretty sure I was being followed by a black SUV. When I made turns, weaving through the one-way streets to avoid fender benders and snarls, it always showed up again. Or one like it. Fingers banging on the steering wheel in frustration, I pulled out and headed for the river. If the vehicle showed up again, I’d know it.

  I meandered a bit to get on the bridge access and crossed the Mississippi, looking down on the churning water and the barges and personal craft. It made me want to get a boat. Like I had time to go play. I reined my stupid brain back in line and checked behind me; the black SUV didn’t show again. But since I was headed in that general direction, I figured I could check in on the clan home property, which was one of Leo’s directives from the meeting the night before.

  As I pulled down the tree-shaded drive, the branches arching over the roadway like something from Tara in Gone with the Wind, I wove between workers’ trucks, trailers, and a few beat-up, rusted cars. The SUV Derek drove was also here, so I pulled in behind it, parked, and got out, stretching in the overheated afternoon light before approaching the house. A heat wave was on the way, the temps in the high eighties and the humidity already close to dripping. Living in the Deep South was a sultry experience and not always in a good way. Mosquitoes were buzzing around me and honey bees were invading the blossoms on the azaleas beneath the trees. Birds were calling. It was as peaceful as it ever got around a vamp’s home.

  Inside the construction site, the walls rose three stories, the top story under the beams of the mansard roof. Two basement levels were belowground, an uncommon occurrence for a place with a high water table. I still hadn’t asked how Leo was keeping the basements from flooding, but from the tingle of magic on the air, the construction boss had a water witch on payroll.

  The workers smelled of cigarettes and old beer and exhaust and unwashed bodies and perfume. A generator had left clouds of exhaust on the air and electric tools had left their own stink. The port-a-potty nearby contained a reek of worse things. But it was all overridden by the smells of fresh wood, chalk, spackling, and turned earth. Faintly, there was brick and mortar, concrete and cement curing—alkaline, earthy scents.

  The new house looked nothing like the old one, being brick and stone with a French country feel. It reminded me of the footprint of vamp HQ. I’d been told it was based on the Château de Dampierre, but on a smaller scale. The château must be huge, because this place was oversized enough to make security both a nightmare and easier than normal: a nightmare to wire and put cameras on all the doors and windows and make sure they all triggered an alarm when needed. Easier to position cameras to cover the grounds and easier because I could position safe rooms anywhere I wanted. There were several, one on each level, each with escape tunnels leading out to different areas of the grounds or garage or another exit. During the planning stage, I’d had a ball adding in all the security details and watching the eyes of the architect and the engineers as I moved things around—ignoring things like load-bearing walls and pipes and stuff. They tended to freak. But everything was in place now and everyone seemed satisfied, if not happy.

  Today there were probably twenty men and women from all areas of construction represented, electricians and plumbers and carpenters, three guys who were wearing stilts on their boots so they could mud wallboard on the twelve-foot ceilings. It looked like a Larry, Curly, and Moe moment waiting to happen. They were all working hard, no loitering on this job site. I had to admit that when it came to getting things done, Leo’s money and favors talked. Unlimited funds and the ability to help heal a sick loved one meant that he got fast and competent service with a smile.

  I confiscated a yellow hard hat and plopped it on, my braid dangling behind me. Walking through the place, I looked up through the unfinished stairs and out through the windows in the mansard roof high overhead. This place took the word mansion to new levels.

  Inside the kitchen was a guy with a hard hat and a set of plans under his arm, talking to a woman in jeans and a tailored jacket, and Derek. It looked like a high-level meeting while the plumbers adjusted PVC piping and electricians and heating-and-air guys tested the floor-warming system that would soon be covered by tile. It was noisy and energetic, but the activity looked good-natured and easygoing, unlike the frenetic way office workers often looked. These people were having fun; they liked their jobs.

  I tucked my hands in my back pockets and moseyed toward the bosses. Derek was talking security. Separated by a wall made only of studs and nails, I stood behind him listening as he discussed the sprinkler system. It had to disperse enough water to put out a major fire, which meant taking water from the Mississippi not so far away. Leo’s previous house had used Mississippi water, grandfathered in under a law that hadn’t been written when the first house’s kitchen was retrofitted with a sprinkler system. Now the MOC wanted the whole house sprinklered, and had discovered that he needed permits from people like the EPA and the Army Corps of Engineers. From Derek’s tone I could tell that Leo wanted fast action but the initial-agencies were balking. Big surprise.

  Like all post-active-duty military men, Derek seemed to have a sixth sense when he was being watched. Or he was just paranoid all the time. He turned to scan the surroundings, eyes probably picking out likely spots for snipers, and saw me. His eyes narrowed, and he frowned. I grinned and gave him a little wave. “The Enforcer is here,” he said. “Maybe she can help with the kitchen issue.”

  Kitchen issue? Not likely. But I walked over, willing to pretend. Sometimes a cold look and a little Beast in my eyes was all it took to get things done. “Sup, y’all?”

  The woman got this look. This “You are not in my league” look. And she was right. She looked chic even in a hard hat, though I’d never have worn three-inch heels to a construction site. I set my hard hat on a counter and slouched against a stud to listen to the problem. The woman was a decorator and her paint colors weren’t matching the tile colors and she wanted something more au courant than beige, white, cream, and snow in the room. She wanted bronzes and coppers and earth tones. Like I cared. But I let her talk and listened with half an ear as I worked out how many cameras we would need to cover the five-car garage. The woman also wanted the two sets of double ovens to be moved across the kitchen from the place where they were in the plans, so she could put a window in the exterior wall. Yada yada.

  I glanced at Derek while she chattered and had to swallow down a laugh at the frustration on his face. It wasn’t easy being boss. All bucks stopped with him—and better him than me. When the decorator wound down, Derek said, “If moving the ovens didn’t cause problem
s elsewhere”—he thumbed at a wall that hid a safe room, and suddenly I understood the problem—“I’d let you have your way on the ovens. But it’s no deal.” He looked at me when she started to speak again, and said, “Jane? What do you say?”

  Great. So much for bucks stopping with Derek. To the decorator, I said, “As I understand it, you have two requests—color scheme and light in the kitchen. Right?”

  She nodded and I went on. “But you also have a job to do. Your job is to make Leo happy. Derek’s job is to keep Leo safe. And that’s my job too. You can’t move the ovens, because that makes it harder for us to do our job. Putting the ovens there”—I pointed where Derek had thumbed—“isn’t going to happen.”

  “But—”

  I held up a hand to stop her. “Let me finish. Request number one is color. Leo likes whites and beiges and he’s outlived au courant several centuries ago.” I studied the space and realized that I had the attention of the entire crew. Lucky me. “You can’t change Leo’s white-toned color scheme but you could make the faucets and knobs bronze and put in some aged copper panels in the ceiling if you want. Drop some bronzy lights over the island.” I’d seen that at Katie’s and it looked really good. “Hang some big copper pots over the island or along the wall next to the cook top.” I pointed. “And . . .” I turned in a circle, trying to see the room as it would be soon. “Maybe put in a copper or bronze exhaust hood. Instead of the white quartz or granite cabinet tops like on the rest of the counters, put copper sheeting on the island. You could even get the oven and refrigerator doors done in copper or bronze, all without changing the color scheme.” When the decorator’s mouth fell open, I said, “What?”

  “That’s . . . perfect, actually,” she said. Then jumped in quickly with, “But this room needs more light.”