I toed her over and spotted a scald on her shoulder and neck. Nicolle glared at me. It was all she could do with the ash wood in her belly. That and leak.

“And she wanted . . .”

“To kill you,” Eli said. “Natch.”

Natch was my word and I shook my head at him.

“She was dropped off at Katie’s by a dark SUV,” Alex said. “Plates reported stolen an hour ago.”

I shifted my body forward to see him and Bodat coming out of the laundry room where they had taken shelter. The Kid was armed with a handgun. Bodat was carrying a broom and was more pasty than usual. He also stank of fear.

“No way to track her back to the enemy,” Alex said.

“Is there always this much blood?” Bodat asked, his voice shaky.

“This is nothing,” Alex said, his voice light but his eyes hard, maybe remembering his own near-death.

“Alex, please call for the Council House’s cleanup crew.” Ed bent and lifted Nicolle into his arms, which must have shifted the position of the stake in her belly because she swiveled her head to me in one of those not-human moves that’s a lot more like a lizard or a bird than a mammal.

“George is mine,” she whispered, the smell of the lie on her breath, leaking from her with her blood and the scent of lemons. “We love each other. We have been lovers for weeks.” When I didn’t react she shouted, “He’s mine!”

“She’s been turned by Des Citrons,” I said. “We need to know where they are. How many they are. What their plans are.”

Edmund hesitated as if weighing my unspoken command to drink her down. “I will discover all that she knows, my mistress, assuming that she knows anything at all.” That sounded as if he agreed with my unspoken request, so that was good. “Rosanne Romanello has decided not to participate in the Sangre Duello. Therefore, I will have Nicolle shipped to Sedona at sunset.”

Nicolle screamed, “Nooooo!”

Ed carried her deeper into the living room, where he opened the hidden door into his sun-protected hidey-hole and slipped inside. The shelving unit closed behind him, cutting off her scream.

“Eli?” I asked.

“I’m good. Coulda used a few more minutes with the fanged healer, but it’s after sunrise.” He looked out the window at the drenching rain before he started up the stairs. I followed, taking in his back. In the human world he would have needed stitches. Maybe a lot of stitches. In the ranger world and the world of vamps, not so much. “What?” he said to me, as if he could tell I was staring at his wounds.

“Ed missed some. You need an urgent care center.”

“Whyn’t you just put pressure on it all and tape me up. Ed can heal me tonight. It’ll be more expedient than a trip to urgent care.”

Expedient was Eli’s word, used whenever I wanted him to get medical care. Home remedies were more expedient than drugs. Pressure and butterfly bandages were more expedient than stitches. “Dumb man,” I said.

Eli shrugged, which made him bleed faster, and led the way to his bathroom.

* * *

• • •

I pulled the covers over my head, hearing rain scudding against the windows. Not thinking. Not feeling. But I rolled back and lifted the boxing gloves off the bedpost, snuggling with them under the covers. Breathing deeply of Onorio scent. Wishing I could tell Bruiser about the sweat house and the revelations of my past. Wishing he was here with me, holding me.

Dreams dragged me under.

* * *

• • •

Bruiser texted me after one p.m. with the words, Lunch? My place? Not cooking but got goodies. Will send a car. Subtext: he’ll send a car instead of worrying that I’d walk and confront a killer again. The shooter (if there had been one aiming for him, or me, or both of us, the last time I took a walk) was still missing. The lemon-smelling one. Right.

I texted back, Send car in 15. I’d had nowhere near enough sleep, but the five-plus hours would have to do. Besides, I needed to tell him about Nicolle’s attack and see what Alex had on Clan Des Citrons. I hung the boxing gloves back on the bedpost and crawled out of bed.

I threw on jeans and boots and a leather jacket. It was almost cool enough in NOLA for my traditional winter wear. I kept weapons to a minimum—a couple of stakes, a short-bladed silver-plated knife in my boot, and a single-holster shoulder harness with an old but trusty H&K. Left my hair down. I was ready ten minutes before the car was due and so I woke up Alex, who was asleep on the couch. “Update.”

Alex made a noise that could have come from a seventy-year-old woman as he sat up and woke his electronics. “I got more vid of the car that picked up Dominique at HQ. One was a security cam shot of the car.”

I felt something settle heavily in my midsection, right above my vaunted gut.

“And?” I asked softly.

“Brive-la-Gaillarde, France, is the hunting territory of the Blood Master of Clan Des Citrons. Her name is Julietta Tempeste. And she came to the U.S. on a tourist visa two months ago. She was sucking face with Dominique in the getaway car.”

“Last known address?” I asked.

“Charleston, South Carolina. But I tracked one of her credit cards to a Hampton Inn off I-10, four days ago. She checked out. Probably in town now.”

“Probably sent people ahead to gather up any dissatisfied local fangheads.”

“I’ve put a ping on her credit card use. If she shows up I’ll let you know and get as much of the video of her entourage as possible, with IDs and dossiers. But I got more.”

“Go on.”

“There was another face in the SUV.”

“Crowded.”

“Right. And the face was someone you fought before. Bancym M’lareil.”

I’d staked Cym, but she had gotten away. I should have found her again and taken her head. Hindsight and all that. Regret was a bitch. “I’m betting Dominique took her off the battlefield when I killed Shoffru and healed her. Then they swore to the lemon heads.”

“Probably working with the enemy from the very beginning,” Alex said.

“Thanks, Kid. Bodat?” I nudged him awake where he snored in a chair. “Either shower or you can move the desk to the back porch.”

“I bathed yesterday!”

“Day before, dude,” Alex said.

Bodat sighed and headed for the stairs.

“Hey, Kid,” I said. Alex turned his head to me again. “You done good.” Alex grinned with pride and tilted his head at me in a gesture that was pure Eli.

* * *

• • •

It was still raining when I got to Bruiser’s third-floor apartment. I knocked before opening the door and toeing out of the Lucchese boots I had pulled on against the rain. The music was turned down low, something bluesy and jazzy all at once and the place smelled heavenly. Bruiser smelled even better when he opened his arms and I exhaled against his chest, sorta melting into him. I was tall, too skinny, but solid muscle and stronger than most men, thanks to my skinwalker abilities. But Bruiser was bigger and taller and though I was capable of taking care of myself, he always made me feel safer. And there was something about a man in a soft flannel shirt and worn-out jeans that hyped up the comfort level for me.

“Are you well, love?”

“I’m just ducky. And you smell fabulous.”

I felt his mouth curl up against the side of my head. “I have smoked salmon, butternut squash soup made with white wine, three flavors of goat cheese, and bruschetta.”

“Sorry. What? I zoned out after smoked salmon.”

He chuckled and took my hand, leading me to the kitchen and the tall white leather stools that fronted the island. It was cool today and Bruiser had kept the tall French doors closed on the temps and the rain so it was cozy in the apartment. He poured me a glass of white wine, ladled steaming butternut squash soup into big soup bowls, and set one in front of me. He was doing the three-course-meal thing. Probably as the only way to get me to eat anything more than the meat.

Tears filled my eyes. I blinked them away, but not before he saw them, or smelled them.

“Jane?” Alarm in his tone.

But I held up my hand and shook my head. “I’m good. Just sleep deprived and tired and . . . and I feel so . . . grateful? Happy?” I reached over and took his hands, squeezing them as I bowed my head, saying a silent thanks. Wordlessly, I listed the ways my life was better, richer, happier. Tears scalded down my face as I silently prayed.