Chapter Five #3
EJ opened the guest list for the queen’s reception, sent by Alex Younger, but found no mention of Cennet.
He transferred everything to the Ivyanna Holmes files and put that growing file on his wall screen to be organized into the background info collected by Ojos.
Walter called it his murder board, from old serial TV crime shows.
With a touch, EJ set Ojos to highlighting duplicate information and discrepancies so he could winnow things down for his board.
Still studying Chancy/Cennet’s real face, EJ pulled on a second pair of thermal leggings and two outer layers. The layers were vital because he anticipated a long, cold night. After paying a visit to Londyn, he hoped that he and Walter would be visiting Cennet’s address.
And then, if the information they obtained warranted it, they might be making another visit: to Chattanooga’s vamp-central.
Due to Angie’s divorce and their current position as unaligned operators, they had no right to enter Karson Marrazzo’s lair.
They would have to knock on a vampire’s door, at night.
Or bust in.
EJ had no idea how that would go. Without an official banner it was a home invasion. Or they could claim the protection of someone’s—the queen’s, or Grampa Shaddock’s—standard. Going in under an official banner gave them almost unlimited power over Asshat, which Asshat would hate.
Unfortunately, if they needed to be under a banner, that would open doors to oversight and control.
Anticipation moved through EJ. Despite the potential use of an official banner, and what it might mean long-term, invading Asshat’s place would be fun.
If they survived it. Survival wasn’t certain.
As a warrior in retirement, parts of him missed the violence of battle and the uncertainties it brought.
Someone had freed a Bes. If that person had one demon, they might have more.
Asshat was stupid. Handsome when he smiled.
Charismatic enough to sweep Angie off her feet when she was in college.
But when it came to vamp politics, he was just plain stupid, and in vamp politics, stupid was dangerous.
Stupid suggested that Asshat could be responsible for everything that was going on, his panties in a twist because he had been humiliated at the reception.
Except he was stupid, so he would be no better than Londyn when it came to planning anything that might actually work. And the demon had almost worked.
Maybe Karson had taken Ivyanna. Maybe he had been pissed when she didn’t re-up her contract with him.
Maybe Karson had sent Tony Montgomery and the goons who had tried to take Corry, thinking she was Angie.
And maybe Willim wanting Walter was woven in there somewhere, and kidnapping Angie was a way to get him.
Nothing. Nothing made sense.
EJ slid into his armored pants and buckled them closed.
Then boots. The boots’ silicone memory material formed to his insteps, ankles, and lower legs, while the insole fully supported his arches and distributed his weight.
The outer sole was hard synth-leather, impervious to water.
The boots had been used by Uncle Sam’s finest in the war and been adopted as the standard for all military and law enforcement boots.
In his case, the boots were also weapons.
They had cost him a fortune, handmade by an ex-pat in Italy who had military connections.
A lot of people from the States, vamps and humans alike, had stayed on as ex-pats in Europe after the war. Most of them had kept their military connections open for the next time. Because there was always a next time.
EJ liked Europe, and visited once or twice a year, meeting people, learning things. The first time he went, he had been escorted by Uncle Eli and introduced as the queen’s godson. Now, he went when he could, alone, maintaining his own connections in both the human and the vampire military worlds.
Over all his layers, he strapped his shoulder rig, checked his Ruger, holstered it, and added two magazines to his pants pockets.
One mag was marked with silver tape. Silver for vamps and were-creatures.
Just in case. He checked his BOBB bag and set it by the door.
BOBBs were Ballistic Off Body Bags, and were designed from ballistic armor, to hold ammo, gear, and an extra carry weapon.
It also held a number of specialized amulets he had used in the military.
His coat skimmed over the layers, and EJ adjusted it over the weapon harness.
The peacoat came to mid-thigh, with four ultrathin layers: an outer layer woven with a weak null working, two thin layers consisting of Dyneema and third-generation Kevlar, with a wool inside layer.
The coat had been tailored for him with enough pockets to hold gear, magical and mundane.
He checked himself in the mirror and picked up an amulet, using glamour to alter his hair color and eye color, and add a few pounds to his apparent weight.
He took the sheen off his too-white skin, adding a hint of tan and raised, dark brown freckles.
The glamour was short-term and would vanish if he had to draw on his magic or enter Delta Mode.
He clicked off the mirror and petted the dog.
George was half asleep after his final walk of the night, lying under the coffee table, where the long-eared, droopy-faced dog had pulled his bed.
He snorted and nuzzled EJ, his jowls slobbery.
The Everhart family had a thing for drooly Basset Hounds, always naming them George.
He had complained when Angie brought home the cats and George, but he loved the drooling hound. The cats, not so much.
In his kitchen EJ shook the smoothie he had forgotten about, opened the lid, and drank it down.
Washed the container and set it on the drying rack beside a grouping of small rosemary and basil plants in clay pots.
Everything in its proper place. The war had taught him that survival necessity.
When the shit hit the fan, he never had to search for anything.
His personal space was painted white with lots of blank walls and few furnishings, creating a look of spare precision, except for the lamps, stone amulet chargers, a multitude of books piled everywhere—old books made of real paper—the snoring dog, and EJ’s magical implements.
Most of the latter were deadly if he needed them to be.
He pushed back the screen that hid his personal weapons wall, and began to assemble his tools.
EJ filled three jacket pockets with innocuous-looking but deadly offensive weapons: amulets, each containing a single concussive attack working.
He laid out a variety of specialized handmade steel flutes, all silver-plated; he selected six.
Each flute had a sharp edge or a wicked point somewhere, though use as a cutting blade or a punch blade invariably damaged their tones and the workings stored within.
Because Londyn had used a demon trapped in a box against them, he added a pair of palillos.
The palillos—Latino battle castanets—he inserted into a pocket sealed with a strong null working, painful to touch.
He wasn’t supposed to have them. He wasn’t supposed to need them, not since the war ended and all the demons were captured.
But like the expats he kept thinking of, he was always prepared, because there would always be a next time.
In a separate pocket, EJ put defensive weapons: silver-tipped copper null sticks etched with the runes Uruz Merkstave and Algiz Merkstave, and a whistle containing a single three-second working that provided protection from explosion and its concussive wave.
He tucked in a pair of null gloves that allowed him to handle magic safely, and several hedge amulets.
EJ was an air witch like his father, and sound waves and air currents allowed him to guide and shape his magic.
He usually used his own voice, humming or singing his workings into being, and his skill with wyrd workings was unmatched.
But EJ was a pragmatist. When he was off-key, his workings were off too, so he carried instruments in case stress caused him to be unable to sing.
More complex and deadly stress like bleeding to death or fighting a demon would affect his voice, his breath, and his ability to use the air for workings.
He wasn’t averse to using stored workings made by his family.
Satisfied with his choices, EJ grabbed his BOBB bag, slipped on a null glove, and gripped Angie’s null staff that ate demons.
It didn’t freeze his hand this time. He left his apartment, taking the stairs down to Angie’s door, his feet silent on the concrete steps.
His family had argued against him breaking Pecan Protocol tonight, but if he waited for dawn, he wouldn’t have Walter, and the intervening hours would allow his enemies more time to plan, more time to get away.
Coming to them now was the strategic move. Reluctantly, they had agreed.