Everyone in New Orleans recognized the former primo of the Master of the City, and the tension in the building changed and tightened, scenting of the kind of adrenaline that was hyperattentive and uneasy. Suddenly, for the cops, something wasn’t going according to protocol and the big room fell almost silent.

George Dumas took the words self-assured to new depths. I felt my face warm at the sight at him. His mouth fought a grin as he took me in, in my wet PJs, barefoot, dirty from being on the sidewalk, scuffed from being picked up from said sidewalk by my bound arms, and not wearing a bra. My hair had come loose from its braid at some point and hung, kinked from the wet, down the middle of my back and over my face. I stood as straight as I could at the sight of my rescuers, and lifted my head. It’s hard to look badass in your jammies, with your arms bound behind you, but I’d give it a go.

No one tried to stop him as Bruiser reached our small grouping and leaned in toward me. He pushed back my hair, exposing my cheek. It had been ground into the concrete when I was cuffed. The abrasion stung, but I’d had lots worse.

Unfortunately Bruiser was old school, the kind of gentleman born and bred in England over a century ago, and he didn’t like seeing me abused. It set off his manly protective instincts and I smelled his anger. Which was just so cute.

Before Bruiser could say anything embarrassing, Brandon addressed me loudly, saying, “Enforcer.” The single word had two effects. It brought Bruiser back to himself and his position, and reminded him that I had a rep to uphold. It also alerted everyone within hearing whom they had in custody. Bruiser’s hand fell away, and he buried whatever he was feeling beneath the professional élan he wore so well.

The cop who had brought me in mouthed the word Enforcer, suddenly realizing that he had possibly miscalculated.

Brandon glanced at Eli and said, “Mr. Younger.”

Eli nodded, his gaze hooded, his body far too still for my liking. This was the way he stood when he was getting ready to put a hurting on someone who had been overly rough with him. And I smelled blood. His. The cop transporting him had hurt him. I frowned, looking for the injury, seeing nothing, but the nose doesn’t lie. Eli was hurt.

Brandon said, “Are you injured, Mr. Younger?” Onorios had excellent noses too, far better than humans.

“Nothing a Band-Aid won’t fix.”

“And did this injury take place after you were in custody?”

Eli nodded once. Very slightly. Eli was ticked off.

Brandon asked me, “Have they charged you with something? Read you your rights?”

“No, on the charges. Yes, on the rights.”

He looked to Eli, who acknowledged my statements with another slight nod.

“Did you identify yourselves to the arresting officers?”

“Eli told them my name.”

“I see. And they didn’t allow that name to temper their actions. Interesting. Enforcer, could you remove the cuffs, if you so wanted?”

Now I knew where we were going with this. I was supposed to be the reasonable one. Bad casting, but, again, I could go with this. I nodded once. “Yes, but they’d be in pieces.”

“And yet, although you could have stopped them at any time, you allowed yourself to be taken in.”

I shook my hair back from my face. “All in the name of good relations with the local police. They had weapons drawn. They had just been in the presence of a witch working, and as humans, they were—” Not scared. Not about to pee their pants. Right. “—unnerved. I didn’t want anyone to start shooting, which might have injured any possible bystanders, tourists, or people looking out their bedroom windows at the scuffle. I figured things would be worked out easily later, when the officers heard the whole story. And then they’d apologize to us for being a tad too rough.” I let a small smile find my mouth. “But then someone called you guys, and I never got a chance.” The Kid was getting smarter by the day.

Brandon turned on one heel and lifted his chin, saying to the cops who had brought us in, “Commander Walker will be contacting you momentarily, alerted to the situation by Sloan Rosen—who you chose to ignore—and the office of the vampire Master of the City. It is my sincere hope that when the commander does communicate with you, the Enforcer to the Master of the City and her partner, Eli Younger, are no longer in restraints.”

The cuffs came off so fast the cop nearly dropped the pair on me. “I didn’t know who you were, Miz Yellowrock,” the officer said.

I rubbed my wrists and pushed back my hair, glancing a warning to Bruiser to show I was fine and would handle this myself. “Not a problem, Officer . . . ” I glanced at his name badge. “. . . Cormier. It was night, raining, bad lighting. You took care of a potential problem. And I’ll heal. Kudos to the local police.

“Do you need me to give a statement? If so, I’m happy to oblige, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home and change clothes. Get my partner his bandage.” I put a tiny emphasis on the word. “And come back. Would an hour work?”

“Miss Yellowrock and Mr. Younger may come back at their convenience,” a voice stated from the back. Commander Walker strode into the room, a frown so firmly etched on his dark-skinned face that it looked as if iron had been melted, poured into a mold, and hardened there. “We’re sorry for the trouble, Miss Yellowrock. My men and I appreciate your willingness to offer a statement. We’ll all be waiting here when you get back. And an hour would be most helpful.” He looked at his men and said, “Make sure they have their possessions. Now would be a good time.”