The helo’s lights danced across the sand.

“I know why you are so sad, my Jane,” he said unexpectedly. “Fear rides a red horse, its coat the color of blood, the color of battle and of loss. Fear is the greatest enemy.”

I frowned as the new helo circled, the lights touching everywhere. “I can’t fight like everyone wants me to,” I said at last. “Falling into that Zen meditation that Eli talks about is hit-or-miss. And when I hit I just slice people up.” Like Callan. “And when I don’t fight in Zen, I lose bits of time.”

“You may not have to fight at all. Nor might I. But if fight you must, then fight as you dance,” he said, his eyes piercing through the dark, his hair already curling in the wet air, “and as your cat hunts. You have balance and muscle memory and claws and teeth. You have deep perception of how an enemy moves and breathes, in the same way you sense how a dance partner moves and breathes, and what steps he may make next. I have seen you take in an opponent and gauge his or her frailties and weaknesses and strengths in the space between heartbeats. You have timing and stealth and joy in movement. All these things are yours by training and nature, my Dark Queen. Incorporate what you can, but do not try to change now. Fight your way. No European will expect such a thing.” He held out a hand. “Come. Let us greet the last arrival.”

“If it’s a suckhead, I hope he can bunk with you. We’re out of room.”

“I fully expect at least one of them to lair with me.”

Hmmm. My mind cataloged the missing vamps as I put my hand into his and let him lead me to the line of waiting staff. The helo finally landed. And Katie stepped onto the sand.

I watched as she leaped from the helo and threw herself into Leo’s arms and our hands were pulled apart. I turned and looked out over the water, to see bow and stern lights juddering up and down the waves. It was the first small boat ferrying the Europeans’ food sources ashore. Blood-servants. Humanish people who had been drinking on the oldest vamps still undead, who had been around long enough to have seen more than one century roll around. Blood-meals who wanted my people dead. People I might have to kill in order to stay alive long enough to see this blood duel through. I turned away from the helo and the beach and moved across the storm-wet sand to the house.

At the bottom of the steps I spotted Molly, Ailis, and Lachish. They were putting the final touches on the circle that surrounded the house, the new fire pit, and the traps built in here and there, the circles dug by hand with small shovels for the hedge of thorns 3.0. Their laughter was ripped by the wind, sending tatters of sound along the shore. The three witches had prepared other defenses on the island, things they hadn’t told me about for two reasons—because they weren’t sure how well they would work over salt water, and because Molly was afraid I’d depend on something that was iffy at best. They had three or four dependable defensive workings ready; the others were less reliable. They had one offensive working at their disposal, but using it went against everything they stood for. They’d use it only as a means of last resort, and again, they weren’t talking to me about it. My job was hardwired and Wi-Fi security, fighting, killing, not witchy stuff.

But . . . there were things I hadn’t told Molly. Things like the fact that I might have a brother. Things like Cym had been in New Orleans. But then I hadn’t expected to have to tell her things until we were face-to-face over a nice cup of tea in her kitchen after all this was over. Molly wasn’t supposed to be here. I stepped down to her and Moll raised a hand, offering me a smile. It withered when I didn’t smile back. She frowned and demanded, “What?”

“Couple things. First, I’m afraid that Bancym M’lareil may be on the island, or may make her way here.”

Molly might have paled slightly. Cym and Jack Shoffru had access to a lot of black magic and they had tried to control Molly’s death magic. Cym had kidnapped Molly. Hurt Molly. Hurt her horribly. “Son of a witch on a switch,” she swore. “When were you going to tell me that?”

“Ummm. Never? You weren’t supposed to be here.”

Molly’s eyes flashed with fire and I almost turned tail and ran as she stalked up to me. Beast, her attention captured by the predatory posture, stared out at her. Molly is predator.

Yeah. And scary.

“You were protecting me?”

“Pretty much.” I shrugged uncomfortably. “With you both on the island, you will be one of her prime targets. All she has to do is control your death magics, point them at Leo, and poof, Titus has everything he wants. Or take out Leo and Titus and then she and Dominique would be in charge.”

Molly reached up and gripped my chin, turning my face down to hers. Softly, she said, “You helped me learn to control my magic. If Cym comes near me, I’ll drain her.”

“But you don’t have your familiar with you.” Meaning that her control would be less than optimal.

Beast took over and spoke through my mouth. “Beast will be Molly’s familiar if Molly-predator needs cat. Beast is best big-cat.”

Molly stared into my/our eyes. “Fine. But don’t keep things from me, big-cat. Understand?”

“The I/we of Jane and Beast understand.”

Molly’s expression went accusing, fingers tightening on my chin painfully. “Don’t think I didn’t notice what you did there. Promise me you will not keep things from me. Promise me.”

I blew out a breath. “I promise. Beast promises.”

“Good enough. What else?”

“I might have a brother who’s nearly as old as me, a skinwalker. He works for PsyLED.”

Moll’s mouth opened and closed. “Well,” she said at last. “That sounds like a good story for when we’re winding down from this crazy party. If I wasn’t preggo, I might even have to send Big Evan off with the kids and open a bottle of wine.” She squinted slightly at me. “You and this brother okay?”

“I think so. Or we’re getting that way.”

“Good. I want to meet him.” Moll went back to work.

My chin hurt where she had pinched it. “Yeah. Moll’s scary.”

I climbed to the porch. Alex was crouched there with his camera gear and Eli’s night combat gear, cataloging each blood-servant on the ferryboat and taking stills with the low-light and infrared cameras. Behind him was a camera man—camera werewolf—with a shoulder-mounted camera. It was Scout, a werewolf I hadn’t gotten to know yet, with a green grindy on his shoulder. She snarled at me, looking stressed out with so many humans—potential victims of werewolf rage—around.

Scout focused in on the sight of the beach and through his earbud, I could hear Champ talking, giving the color or the overview or whatever you called it, in his pristine British accent. The leader of the werewolves was in a closet we had set aside for the production room/security room, and it was pretty much wall-to-wall screens from every wall-mounted and shoulder-mounted camera on the island. There wasn’t enough bandwidth to allow all of us comms equipment, but the island was so small we could likely hear a good scream from end to end.

Every flaw, every flub, every wound and death, every single thing that happened for the next two nights, would be filmed and sent out live in the pay-per-view agreed upon between Leo and the werewolves and Titus. Lot of money riding on the pay-per-view, the gambling, and maybe documentaries after.

I blinked the salt and grit out of my eyes and walked through the house, feeling tiredness in every muscle of my body, an ache in my middle that called for antacids. Bandit and Rocky were in the kitchen tasting things and making suggestions to Deon. Ro and Brenda, Katie’s retinue, were bent over a schematic of security equipment, offering suggestions. The stink of vamp and werewolves and sex and blood and adrenaline were all mixed together in a gagworthy stench. The house and the spit of land were too small for us all.

Only hours until midnight. Our side could have used some sleep.

* * *

• • •

I don’t know what Titus or his retinue were expecting when they came ashore and walked toward the steps leading to the house. Applause? Bowing and scraping? Tugging on our forelocks?—which meant pulling the hair at the front of our heads. Surely he had expected fighting armor. What he saw as he approached was Eli and me standing at parade rest, not wearing leathers, but fully weaponed up with dual longswords, things that go bang, and two vials of holy water each. At my waist, I was wearing my sheathed Mughal Empire, watered-steel dagger, my gift from Bruiser. We looked like a walking advert for overlapping time periods. A take-no-prisoners duo from multiple eras, me in a nineteenth-century-style corset top and formal skirt, but wearing weapons, Eli in jeans and a muscle shirt, with even more weapons. With bare feet. Eli and I also had our battle faces on. A bizarre unwelcoming committee of two. We’d been standing in place for nearly an hour in the moonlight, as the EVs kept us waiting. Playing games already.