I stepped back, slowly went through the proper procedures to safe my weapons, and tucked the extra rounds into my sports bra. Makeup Wolf was watching and said, “Oh, honey, do you have one of those new tactical women’s sleeveless holster shirts?” At my blank look he said, “I have one in black mesh lace. It is to die for. Of course it’s with Queen Bitch, lost in the belly of a plane somewhere in Hawaii. My QB got to go to Hawaii without me. I am so jealous.”

“Queen Bitch? Hawaii?”

He fluttered his hands and explained, “Queen Bitch is my wardrobe and my stage name.” He stuck out his hand for a shake. The hand wasn’t hairy, which meant he had been body-waxed since his last shift. Just . . . ouch. His nails were painted in a sparkly black that matched his hair.

I took his hand, which crushed mine in a manly competition, and I had to pull on Beast’s strength to avoid bruising.

“Love the hair,” he said, beaming. “It’s so eighties Cher.”

I thought it was a compliment. Maybe. And that also, he might be telling me he was a . . . drag queen?

New Orleans had had drag queens openly onstage for decades before the rest of the nation even knew what the flamboyant stage performers and cross-dressers were. I had never been around a real honest-to-goodness drag queen; not even Deon, Katie’s chef, claimed to be a drag queen, just a queen, and there was clearly a difference. Gender pronouns for drag queens could be fluid, and I suddenly didn’t want to insult. “Okay. How do I address you, pronoun-wise?”

“When I’m properly dressed, you will call me QB, which I totally am. And the proper pronouns would be she and her.” He gave me a girly hand flap with the crushing paw. “When I’m in a suit, I’m he and him. Since we’re all besties now, you can call me Ziggy, my puppy name.”

They had given Leo their bellies. Therefore they were puppies to Leo and to us as well. Crap. Puppies.

Derek cursed softly under his breath. Ziggy batted his eyes at Leo’s other Enforcer. “And you must be Derek. Honey, you are gorgeous. I’ve always had a thing for the lean, mean military man.” Derek glared but shut his mouth.

Phillip asked, “Do you know where Jax’s wolves are?”

I said shortly, “Jax is under PsyLED control. I have no idea about the others. Why was I attacked by Jax?”

“There’s not one simple reason, but rather a plethora of them. Jax’s sire died in New Orleans some months ago, in a bar called, I believe, Booger’s.” His tone went faintly disgusted at the name. “It’s said he died of a blade at the hands of a woman called Jane Yellowrock. As a young wolf, he watched Leo and George Dumas”—his dark eyes flashed Bruiser’s way—“hunt down and kill a wolf who had bitten a human. He hates bloodsuckers, but that hatred exploded when he heard that Leo Pellissier might have a werewolf chained in his basement. He came for vengeance, and because he cannot control his wolf even in human form. And he is a very, very powerful wolf.”

I had a feeling Phillip had left something out, but I went with what I had so far. “I killed a lot of wolves back then. They were led by a bitch in heat and the entire pack was violently psychotic. Leo hunted down and killed a lot of wolves back before the U.S. had grindylows to keep the peace.” No one shifted stance or changed scent, so my blunt statements weren’t a surprise.

“PsyLED has Jax,” I repeated. “He’s out of the picture. How many more are going to attack me?”

“Jax will not be in custody for long, unless they keep him drugged or full of silver. He doesn’t have the emotional control to be an alpha, but he has . . . skills. He’ll be back on the streets in less than twenty-four hours.”

“You seem pretty sure of that,” I said as Bruiser pulled his cell and started texting, probably texting Rick or Soul about the danger of the ginger werewolf in custody.

“I am,” Phillip said distinctly, his magic sharp as broken stone on the air. “My drivers left the cars and went hunting. Bighorn will find this misbegotten pack and teach them obedience.”

I almost said, Newspaper to the snout, but I managed to hold it in. “This is Pellissier’s city. If you need assistance, just ask.”

Phillip tilted his head, a doggy gesture. “I would be honored if the white wolf would join us in this quest.”

“I’ll have someone ask him. I don’t tell him what to do. No one does. Would the other pack join with the EuroVamps?”

Phillip hesitated. “Possibly. I haven’t had time to address that possibility. Scout, Bear, go help track. Make sure the grindy is with you all.”

“Yes, sir,” both wolves said. They grabbed their gear and left the room.

I gestured to the conference table. “For now, we have contracts to discuss and security measures to consider.”

Wrassler brought in more chairs. We sat around the table, Ziggy taking the chair beside me so we could “girl talk,” though I think he wanted to be there so he could magic me down if the need arose. His presumption should have ticked me off, but it didn’t, which was probably a big indication of his considerable magic.

We all introduced ourselves, with proper names, but Ziggy filled me in on the puppy names. There was Boomer, Scooter, Champ, and the two who had left to hunt, Scout and the hairy one, Bear. The drivers were Bandit and Rocky. Phillip—Champ for obvious reasons—ignored Ziggy’s not-so-sotto-voce intros. Ziggy was the only openly gay wolf or drag queen in the group, but I guessed there would be others.

Champ made it clear to us that the pack swearing to Leo meant that Leo’s share of the profits in the broadcasts had gone way up, that his problems dealing with the gaming board had just disappeared, and most importantly, that the pack would stand by us should war with the emperor, Titus Flavius Vespasianus, result from the outcome of the duel—no matter who won or lost.

Leo was expanding his power base in the vamp way, getting others to do his dirty work—like tracking down dangerous wolves in his city—while also using the same people to accomplish negotiations with the powers that be in pay-per-view and the gaming board. The MOC had been playing five-card stud with life and undeath again.

And . . . because there were no European vamps onshore to cause trouble, until we had a venue for me to secure, people for me to vet, or werewolves to kill, I was twiddling my thumbs. I needed something to hunt. I wondered if Scout and Bear wanted company tracking the errant werewolves. I texted Alex a recap of what had happened and sat there, thinking about where I’d go if I was a werewolf pack on the loose in NOLA, waiting to parley with the EVs and join the war against Leo. It was unlikely that the Zips would take in a pack who had already cost them two gang members. But the rogue wolves had made the acquaintance of Dominique and therefore with the vamps who were turning against Leo. They might be given a lair to sleep in. Except that Alex had all the known lairs wired for video and audio. He’d have caught something by now, even if it was just a misspoken phrase.

However . . .

There was a huge homeless population in NOLA, hundreds, maybe thousands, living under the overpasses, sleeping in alleys, in private gardens. If I was looking to hide out, I’d join the men and women there. Yeah. If I was an evil werewolf, I’d go hunting and bite a few humans. While an overworked grindy was busy with the Bighorn Pack, I’d make a bigger pack. This sucked.

CHAPTER 7

I Failed You

The meeting was cordial and useful, especially when we brought Alex on electronically, face-to-face, to discuss the possible necessity of setting up satellite transmission of the fights and to settle on the best ways to financially secure the online gambling transactions.

The wolves were extra affable and congenial, probably because of Ziggy’s antics, pack dynamics, and the stronger wolf—Champ—showing Leo his belly. Whatever the reason, the groups merged well; Leo had planned it all out, giving us a path to meld us into a single pack under my leadership. And—despite Ziggy’s claims—because I was the only woman in a group of men, that made me the queen bitch. Werewolves followed the queen everywhere.

The appointment ended when Bruiser got a call and headed back to vamp HQ.

I saw the rest of us out, which meant time I had to chat—not my forte, especially in the face of Ziggy’s friendliness. I turned down an offer of a drink at Café Lafitte In Exile with the Bighorn werewolves, dancing at Oz, and hunting rogue werewolves. The café was low-key and unpretentious, a place where local gays socialized, according to Ziggy. Oz was another matter entirely, with bar-top go-go boys, high-energy music, and a laser show that was reputed to leave the dancers in a frenzy. “You love to dance. I can tell,” he said, dragging a fingertip across his lower lip. “And then we can hunt Prism down and eat his liver.”