I had been to both locations before. At the Warehouse address, I had found the scent of my godchildren, in a closet, where they had been kept, kidnapped, until the Damours needed them for a black-magic, blood-magic sacrifice to power the blood diamond. I had always assumed that the Damours owned the property, and perhaps they had at the time I was there last, but way back when . . . Yeah. Way back when, the Son of Darkness had owned the property. He had owned land in Barataria too, under the name of Jesreal St. Anna. St. Anna/Santana. With vamps, there was no such thing as coincidence. Heedless of damaging them, I folded the deeds and left the house, closing the door quietly behind me.

Outside, it was midday and hotter than one of Dante’s circles of hell. It was a wet heat and my clothes stuck to me instantly as I slid my shades over my eyes. The whole world smelled of urine, sweat, and river water. I hated Louisiana in summer. I hated the summer smells, the summer mosquitoes, and the summer everything. I hated lack of sleep. It was hard to be charming when I was sleepy. But charming was overrated.

I beeped open the SUV and slid it into traffic. This time Eli slept through my escape. Go, me.

Due to the larger-than-normal group of picketing humans in front of and along the side of HQ, it took longer to make it the few blocks to the Council House than it did to find the deed I was so ticked off about. Dang Louisiana cars. I slowed in front of the gate and put on my blinker. I half felt, half heard the gunshot. And the odd splat/squeak at my side.

I flinched and dropped low in the seat.

Beast reared up in me. Predator! Gun, she screamed inside me.

Almost as one unit, the crowd crouched and started to run. I could hear their screams. The second shot hit the SUV window. It left a dark, rounded mark in the glass, spiderwebbing out. A third shot followed, but the window held. I yanked the wheel and roared into the Council House drive, slamming to a stop in front of the iron gate as I dialed HQ security, the back of my car hanging out in the street. Behind me there was shouting, and I got a glimpse of a horse, one of the mounted police units that patrolled the Quarter. Sirens sounded close by.

“. . . —n I assist you?” a man’s voice came from my cell, barely heard over the screaming.

“It’s Jane! I’m out front! Security code Alpha Attack! Someone in the crowd took a shot at me. Let me in. Now!” I heard more shots, more sirens in the background. I didn’t want to be responsible for a cop, a horse, or a pedestrian getting shot. “Now! Now! Now!”

The massive iron gate rolled back and I was admitted by whoever was on security console detail, and I parked just on the inside of the iron gate as it rolled shut, offering me protection I didn’t have otherwise. “Thanks,” I said, gasping, heart pounding. I had been shot at. “What do you see?” I asked security.

Beast thought at me, Stay in den. Safe here.

Yeah, I thought back. Okay.

Through my cell, security said, “Right now, there are three cop cars in the street and one pissed-off mountie. Sorry, Janie. Unhappy mountie. They got three people in custody, but I don’t see any weapons on the suspects. The second-story window is open, drapery blowing in the breeze.”

Another voice said, “Hang on, Legs. Let me check the feed on the other cameras. I’ll let you know when it’s clear to exit the vehicle.”

The second voice belonged to Vodka ChiChi, a guy I had worked with for some time. A guy I trusted. The first guy was one of the newbies, and I didn’t remember his name, let alone trust him yet.

I breathed deeply, waiting for an all clear to exit the vehicle. Three minutes passed. As my heart rate slowed to something closer to normal, I sat up in the seat and my eyes tracked all the security updates, noting where a camera hadn’t yet been installed. I would’ve bet money that the missing camera would have been the one that best covered my getting shot at.

Since Leo’s security people were handling the installation of the outside cameras, I’d have to have a word with someone, and I was now so far beyond grouchy that I figured I’d make a really good point. More minutes passed. My former sleepiness was buried under adrenaline, leaving me twitchy and testy and ill-tempered. I stopped my fingers where they were tapping out a rhythm on the wheel, and gripped the leather instead. It was mostly nerves, but nerves were not what I wanted to display when I entered vamp HQ. I concentrated on breathing deeply and slowly. But I wanted to tear off someone’s face with my claws.

“Janie, Sloan Rosen just called. He wants the vehicle,” ChiChi said over my cell connection.

“Fine. He can clean my pee off the seat,” I said, only halfway joking.

ChiChi laughed. “The shot definitely came from the second-story window. Cops have the place sealed off, but it looks as if the shooter got away. The other people in custody appear to be bystanders who mouthed off a little too much.”

I took my life in my hands as I opened the door. Wet, heated weather blew in and I realized I was drenched in sweat. An attack from nowhere was harder than actual battle. At least in battle, I usually knew whom I was fighting. An ambush was scary, and my body was still reacting. Beast’s body was still reacting. Dang.

I stepped out of the SUV and crouched at the door, inspecting the damage. The first slug had flattened into and against the driver door, at my left upper arm. The window shots were likewise embedded. If the rounds had been larger caliber, if any of them had penetrated, I’d have taken a heart shot or a head shot. My sniper was a good shot at short distances, with what looked like rifle rounds—not handgun rounds, and not frangible varmint bullets or ones that entered, expanded, and ripped holes as they exited. This looked like a bullet designed for complete penetration, in and out, the intent being to punch a knitting needle–sized hole, plunge through the victim (deer or, in this case, me) and out the other side into whatever was on the other side. My passenger door. Because of the short range and the minimal damage to the armored SUV, I was betting the cops would recover traditional “deer-getter” .30-06 rounds from the premises. A hunting round fired by every good ol’ Southern boy who hunted—a blue million of them around there. Unless they found prints or got lucky, my shooter was in the wind and would never be found.

“Whoever had drawn a bead on you, they were a really good shot,” a woman said from behind. My hands clenched, resisting the urge to jerk, yelp, or pull the nine mil and shoot.

Moving as if I didn’t feel like I had a target painted on my back, I turned to her and saw three other armed security personnel in the drive area. Silent, I left the vehicle and strode up the stairs, the guards racing to fall in behind me, weapons pointed at the street. They had come outside at the sound of gunfire. Stupid, from a security standpoint, but . . . nice. Really nice. Over my cell, and from the guard’s headsets, I heard ChiChi say, “All clear. All clear. All clear.”