I checked in on the third, smallest bedroom. Neatly stacked against the narrow wall space, floor to ceiling, were suitcases belonging to Bruiser, Brian, and Brandon. The Onorios were bunking together in a space almost big enough for one small bed. It was . . . cozy. Right. Cozy. Claustrophobic. Cramped. I looked over the luggage and didn’t see weapons cases. That answered one question. The Onorios would not be fighting. They were to be judges and referees, not fighters. I wasn’t happy about some of our best fighters relegated to the sidelines, but the negotiations had been intense. Leo wouldn’t have given up them as fighters without good reason. Leo had arranged to remove three of Titus’s foremost fighters in return, and gained the home court advantage referees. But if I was injured I knew that Bruiser would kick the referee title to the four winds and protect me. Bruiser would hate himself if he reneged on a vow to act as observer and judge. Another reason to stay alive and healthy. I eased away and shut the door behind me.

The big back room had been set aside for the rest of the blood-servants’ bunk beds and this room was a madhouse, the location for most of the cursing, shouting, and thumps. They’d be sleeping in shifts and some of them would have to switch out bunks, but no one would have to sleep on the floor. Eli, Alex, Troll, and Wrassler were on the far end of the room. Derek and his security men were positioned near the door: Angel Tit, Chi-Chi, Tequila Sunrise, T. Sweaty Bollock, T. Jolly Green Giant, P. Shooter. Three of the Vodka boys. Deon, acting as chief cook and bottle washer for us all, had a curtained lower bunk for himself. Twelve male blood-servants, who were also the housekeeping crew and the medical team, would be sharing three sets of bunk beds, switching out cots to sleep in shifts. Pretty much, the long narrow room was wall-to-wall bunks. By day and night the air here would carry the roar of snores and the massed stink of sweat, bad breath, BO, and dirty clothes.

As satisfied as I could be with the current accommodations, I wove between people and down the stairs. The main room was perfect, but too full of people, most lounging on the sofas, cells or tablets in hand, checking the new Wi-Fi connection. It was too slow. Lots of complaints. I left through the back door, crossed the screened porch, where more people lounged on new outdoor furniture or in hammocks, and outside. The smell of were-creature hit me.

The werewolves were sleeping outside, under the house, on the sand or in hammocks, unless a major tide brought in high water, in which case they’d be sleeping on the third floor when it wasn’t in use for duels. The weres included Brute, the entire wolf pack camera team, and two grindylows.

Werewolves are ugly.

I stepped down the narrow stairs. They were older than the wider front stairs, and squeaked with each step. Yes. I can see how you might think so. Wolves and dogs.

Werewolves are not pack turned. Werewolves are loyal to Leo.

I slowed. And how do you know that?

Beast can smell stink of betrayal on weres. Beast does not smell stink of betrayal on wolves.

Would have been nice to know that, I thought, with a lot more snark than I planned.

Beast chuffed. Beast is still learning to use good nose from ugly dog. New stinks are hard to learn. Beast padded away from me, into the depths of my mind. No cops were here in any official capacity.

I moved away from the house and into the relative quiet of the dark. I found a wind- and storm-beaten tree to rest against and sat on the low limb, looking out over the ocean. I didn’t see U.S. Navy ships. Maybe Leo had found a way to keep them off the shore, though they had to know that warm bodies were here because the defensive hedges were not yet in place. The military had satellites and the ability to track heat signatures. In a few hours, here on this one island, would be the greatest accumulation of powerful Mithrans in the world. If the military had the ability to scan through a hedge of thorns thrown up by Lachish and the other witches, the possibility of a missile mishap existed, one that accidentally decimated an island and a house that had never appeared on maps . . . The opportunity was there. The military could track all the boats and the helos arriving and departing. Military satellites would see what civilians couldn’t. Would they take the chance that Leo would win and the peaceful status quo would be maintained? Or would Uncle Sam wipe us all out? I was becoming a paranoid conspiracy theorist.

The cynical part of me said the government would dither and yammer and yada yada for days, at which point the Sangre Duello would be over, for better or worse. The really cynical part said they would blow us to kingdom come. It started to rain, an icy deluge that chilled me to my bones. “Great.”

* * *

• • •

I was back at my little limb, dancing shoes ground into the storm-wet sand, silk-clad butt resting on the wind-scoured bark, as the helo landed, its rotors chopping the night. These would be the last deliveries. The NOLA vamps were now all on Spitfire Island. Staff raced to unload luggage from the helicopter. A few raindrops splatted down for a moment, big splashy things that left star patterns in the sand.

I watched from the shadows as Leo stepped from the helicopter, a black shadow in the night, his hair flying in the rotor wash. He was dressed for travel in black jeans and a black sport coat with a white shirt, more casual than I ever remembered seeing him. He was walking to the house and the line of waiting blood-servants when he stopped. Swiveled his head in that unhuman way they have, his nostrils fluttering. And his eyes settled on me in the dark.

Abruptly, he changed course and came to me, stepping gracefully on the sand. He stood staring down at me, the scent of ink and papyrus and black pepper whirling on the prop wash, Leo’s scent. His power spun after it, spiky and intense, like flaming velvet. The wind shifted, carrying away the helo noise, enough to talk. “My Jane. You sit in the dark. Do you grieve when no death has yet occurred?”

“People I love will die in the next night or two. People you love.”

“War is always hard. Death is inevitable, even for Mithrans.”

“I love how you comfort me.”

Leo laughed, that wonderful laugh the powerful ones use, that sends shivers down your spine and makes magic dance on the air. “There is no comfort in war, my Jane. Nor in death. I would not attempt to comfort one who faces battle. There are only platitudes in words.”

Maybe I was still human enough to want platitudes? But I didn’t say it.

“The corset style suits you well,” he said.

I reached up and touched the décolletage of the scarlet corset-styled top, designed by Madame Melisende, Modiste du les Mithrans. The golden lace was made from silk thread, as soft as heaven. My breasts were hefted high, making it look like I had a lot more in the boob department than I did and my doubled gorgets were propped on mounded flesh. My black skirt was a fighting formal, designed for dancing and weapons and battle, but on first glance looked soft and feminine.

My combat boots, the red leathers, a brand-new undergarment, and the white, buttery-soft-as-pigskin moto-jacket fighting leathers were spread on the bunk, ready for the right moment to change. The leathers were backed with Dyneema fabric and hard plasticized armor between the layers. They were lined with silk and there were defensive anti-spells woven into the entire thing. Both sets of leathers were adjustable, so that if I shifted into half-form, they would shift with me, stretching where I expanded and contracting where I shrank. But I wasn’t wearing the leathers. Instead, I was dressed in sexy-formal garb, weapons chafing my exposed flesh.

The helo lifted away before I spoke, the artificial wind whipping the low branches and throwing sand. As it flew away, I heard the approach of the other helo. It was a staggered landing pattern, so the staff didn’t have to reassemble every few minutes, and it had been going on all evening. But Leo’s was supposed to be the last one. A surprise for us all? Someone unannounced? Someone to throw the entire Sangre Duello into total discord? Sure. Why not? Sometimes I thought Leo was more cat than I was. I deliberately didn’t ask about it. I said, instead, “I like the white leathers. They’re different. But this will make a confusing impact.”

“True. And when you fight, you will be the only snowflake among us.”

Snowflake. He was baiting me. Again I didn’t reply.

“Though perhaps a well-knapped white-quartz blade might be a better analogy.”