Eli shook his head, but answered in the affirmative. “Yeah. Okay. For a werecat who didn’t think twice about harming Larry.” He made a fist and placed it on the door between Kem and us. “Okay. Four hours.”

Eli walked away, leaving me thinking about how much I had changed, about how easy it had been to slip away from humanity, away from thinking about mercy and kindness. Mercy and kindness were hard. Hurting others was easy. The door opened and I met Ed’s eyes as it closed. It was a thick door. Heavy. It sealed with a little whoosh of sound I hadn’t noticed when I entered and left. It was a door created to keep the screams of those inside from disturbing others in the hallway. It was a room built for imprisonment and torture. “I’m a horrible person,” I said, speaking to myself rather than to Edmund.

“Yes, my master. You are.”

“But if I set him free, again, he’ll hurt the ones I love. Again.”

“Yes, my master. He will.”

“I have to take care of the people I love. That means . . .” This was the hard part. The part I had realized several times over the last months. “That means I have to become a monster.”

Gently, Edmund said, “Have you not always been a monster, my master?”

I took in a breath that hurt as if I had been stabbed. I turned from the room where I was actively torturing an enemy and started to walk away. Faint screams came from the room behind the heavy door. My heart leaped into my throat. Ed slammed the door open. We both raced inside. Kemnebi lay inside his cage, his throat sliced away, his blood emptying out, toward the drain in the middle of the floor. His cage was still secured. The grindy was standing atop the cage, her neon fuzz bloodied, her ankles and neck showing ligature marks where rope of some sort had dug into her flesh and abraded off the hair. She had been tied up. She had gotten away. And killed a wereleopard inside his cage. Right. Not exactly a kitten.

Eli appeared at my side. “Well, hell,” he said.

Vamps and weres and their blasted layers of conspiracies within plots within intrigues within treacheries. “I need to see the parley papers. We need to talk to Leo.”

CHAPTER 11

QaStaHvIS yIn ‘Ej Chep

We were walking into the foyer when a man’s voice stopped us, saying, “Legs?” The nickname meant it was one of the longtime security guys. Team Tequila or Team Vodka. “Hey, Antifreeze,” I said, slowing. “It’s good to see you up and moving. How are you?”

“Not bad, Legs. Suckheads pay better for injuries than Uncle Sam and don’t dump you for wounds.” He held out his good hand and there was a folded note between two fingers. Folded but unsealed meant it had been seen by everyone, that it wasn’t private. “From the MOC.”

I unfolded the paper, seeing my long-fingered hands move. I hadn’t even noticed I was still in half-form. In Leo’s distinctive calligraphy were the words, The Master of the City requests that the Master of Clan Yellowrock join us in my office before you depart.

Master of Clan Yellowrock, not Jane, or my Jane, or Enforcer. Names and titles meant something to vamps. This was city or clan business, and fortuitous since we needed to chat with him. I passed the note to Eli, who gave his service smile, a twitch of lips. I chuckled and the sound was half-Beast. Antifreeze flinched just the tiniest bit. Right. I was a monster and living with monsters never got easier.

“Let’s go visit Leo in his office,” Eli said, his voice hard and emotionless. It was the voice he used when he planned to beat up someone. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy. “Thank you,” I said politely to Antifreeze. On my bare paw pads, I climbed the foyer stairs to Leo’s office, Eli on my heels. Knocked. Entered when he called out “Entrez.” I walked through the entry with its fireplace and expensive rugs and wall hangings to find Leo at his desk, me still in half-form, Eli wearing his battle face.

Leo was sitting, leaning back in his leather chair, his legs outstretched, shoes off, and ankles crossed. Papers rested on his chest. A gold-plated pitcher dribbled condensation onto a gold platter. A cut-crystal bottle, the label reading MACALLAN 1824 SERIES NO. 6 SINGLE MALT, was at his elbow, a glass beside it, the scotch legs still draining down the side of the empty glass.

His hair was loose on his shoulders, his clothing blood splattered. There were even a few drops on his face. The stench of old blood had to be horrible to an apex predator, but he hadn’t cleaned up. And he was drinking scotch. His hands were uncovered except for the bandage on his fingers. He’d lost some in a fight recently and they were still reattaching. It was a vamp thing.

He didn’t look up as we entered. I stood there for a moment, watching, evaluating. Then I leaned over and took the papers off his chest. It was the werecat parley agreement that someone had retrieved from the Royal Sonesta. The pages rustled softly as I flipped through them, scanning, Eli reading at my side. The opening paragraph was like a thesis statement, saying that three parties were aligning in a triumvirate of power: the European emperor, the were-creatures (African werecats and a small pack of rogue werewolves), and two vamps. Dominique Quessaire and—Bancym M’lareil.

“Ahhhh,” I breathed, putting things together. Cym had caused the anomaly. That was why the magic in the gym had felt so familiar. That was why the weres had attacked. I knew Bancym M’lareil. She had mind magic. She had an obfuscation spell unlike any other I had ever seen.

Cym was both witch and vamp. She had been the heir of Jack Shoffru, the Mexican MOC, a pirate vamp, one of many fangheads in the last two years who’d tried to take over New Orleans. Bancym had kidnapped Molly. Had hurt Molly. Had nearly killed Eli. During my fight with Shoffru, when Eli nearly died, I had staked Cym. But I hadn’t taken her head and she had disappeared. Clearly, she had been dragged off the battlefield and healed.

The rogue werewolves had always been Leo’s enemies, as had Titus, the EVs, and Cym. Dominique was the glue that held them all together, and she had sworn to Clan Des Citrons, which was not mentioned here. A clan would have their own parley agreements, not one tied in with the hoi polloi. Dominique and Bancym had their talons in a lot of pies, the least known and understood, Clan Des Citrons. I needed to find out about the clan, who they were, what they wanted, where they were, everything.

The summary was the part that mattered. They had all signed and agreed to pacts of aggression against their enemies. When Titus defeated Leo, he would destroy the Bighorn Pack and give the huge territory to Prism, Jax, and their pack. Titus would also grant all of Leo’s territory to the two female vamps, making them, together, the two most powerful vamps in the United States. I dropped the papers on the desk.

Leo didn’t look up. Softly he said, “The weight of years, the weight of my enemies, the weight of betrayal rests heavily on my shoulders.” It was the tone of depression, melancholy, and failure.

Eli glanced at me and gave me a quirky half grin. He leaned over and took Leo’s glass and the decanter, holding them to the lamp. “This goes for around sixty-five hundred dollars a bottle.” He sloshed a bit in the glass and swirled it. Sniffed. Added a few drops of water from the gold pitcher. Swirled and sniffed again. Leo slowly turned his head, one of those nonhuman, snaky gestures they did, watching my partner. “I did not offer you my scotch, human.”

Eli sipped, swirling the liquor in his mouth, swallowing in tiny bursts, breathing down the fumes. “Not bad. Not better than a thirty-five-year-old Balvenie, but not bad.” He sipped again, watching Leo.

Leo said, “I have a forty-six-year-old Balvenie, 1968, cask seventy-two, ninety-three, in my cellar.”

Eli nodded. Sipped again. “Nice. Since you’re all whiny and giving up, can I have the Balvenie? I’d hate for Titus to get his paws on it.” Eli glanced at me. “Begging the pardon of the pawed and pelted.”

“Pardon granted,” I said, letting my amusement tell in my tone.

“Whiny?” Leo asked, his eyes slowly vamping out. “You are asking to raid my estate? I am not dead.” His fangs schnicked down.

“Not yet. And you’ve got the home advantage. And you now know all your enemies. But you sound defeated. You sound as if you’ve given up. What you believe about the outcome is three-quarters of the battle, so you’ve already lost. You’re dead, old man.” Eli sipped, sizing Leo up like a young recruit on the day of battle. “And I’m drinking your scotch without your permission.” Leo shot out of the chair, straight at Eli.