I was in so much trouble.

“We have a general direction for Misha and indications that she’s alive,” Eli said, bringing me back to the room. I focused on his words and chewed, paying no attention to Soul’s intense scrutiny. “As the distance from this house increases, the directional arc of error increases, but close in, it isn’t too bad.” He laid a paper Natchez city map on the table; it was marked with a red triangle, the apex at Esmee’s house. The triangle widened to include most of the old uptown, the riverfront, and, oddly enough, most of the city across the river: Vidalia, Louisiana. I looked up at Eli and he inclined his head, agreeing that it was a coincidence worth investigating if my clues in Natchez continued to be staked.

“Yeah. My bro, the ace Ranger, has a direction based on Soul’s spell and Bobby’s dowsing. Bodat has contacts in county records that point us in the direction of properties that were owned by Silandre and her cohorts in the past, under different names, and then were inherited”—he made little bunny-ear quotations in the air around the word—“prior to the sixties, when the vamps came out of the closet. We’ll narrow them down to locations within the arc that Bobby and Soul established in their direction hunts.”

Eli took over. “The properties were passed on through the inheritance laws to Silandre herself, of course, but under different names to protect the vampire identity. The different names opened up an entirely new set of research opportunities, and the boys have been compiling and cross-referencing the names.”

“Which,” the Kid hesitated and glanced up at his brother, revising whatever he’d been about to say. “Which revealed past—” He stopped again, and finished with, “Past relationships between Silandre and that Esther vamp.” I figured he’d been about to say something crass about them in bed together. Again.

Bodat said, “Yeah, she went both ways, dude—AC/DC. Girls and guys.” I wanted to slap the back of his head, but Eli beat me to it. “Bodat reared back in his chair. “Dude, what was that for? Whadid I say?”

“Stop with the comments. Dude,” Eli said. “Ladies present.”

Bodat looked at me and shook his head in confusion, clearly not putting the word lady into the same column as me. And then he looked at Esmee and said, “Oh. Like, sorry, uh, ma’am. Sorry.” He looked over his shoulder at Eli and said, “You coulda just said, dude.”

I hadn’t really paid attention to Bodat except for registering his pizza scent, and I wasn’t surprised that he was pudgy around the middle, with soft arms and droopy flesh, old before his time through lack of exercise and improper diet. On the other hand, the Kid was toned and fit, his arms showing muscles through the T-shirt material—the result of being forced into an exercise plan and better diet by his Ranger brother and his depressed housemate (me) for several months. “Anyway,” Bodat said, “we also looked into them hanging with Zoltar and Narkis, and we got nada. No such luck. Other stuff is more interesting, like a relationship between Silandre and Leo Pellissier.”

“Silandre and Leo?” I asked around my sandwich, trying to cover my mouth.

“Yeah,” the Kid said. “Silandre and Leo had a . . . a thing before the Civil War, and she ran a . . . a brothel”—he smiled his delight in finding a word other than whorehouse—“here in Natchez for his uncle Amaury. When Leo took over as his uncle’s heir, he gave her the house.”

“Our city was rife with prostitution back in the day,” Esmee said, sounding almost proud, crossing her ankles and lacing her fingers around her belly. “By some counts there were over a hundred catering to the plantation owners, the dockworkers and bargemen from the north, and visiting Yankees. Quite the moneymakers, they were. My great-great-grandfather owned such an institution in Under the Hill. I should look this up in the family histories to be sure of the address. I do believe it might still be standing.”

Eli’s brows went up at the pride in her voice.

Esmee added, “Oh yes. Early travelers described our fair town variously as ‘a gambler’s paradise, a sinkhole of iniquity, and a resort of the damned.’ That is a quote, though I don’t recall who said it, precisely.” She preened. “My children are horrified at the histories. But the young tend to be such ninnies. Don’t you agree?”

Smothering a grin, I chewed, thought, and decided not to reply to the question. “Hmmm. Vamp squabbles and wars and romances can go back for dozens of human generations, practically lost in time. But for them it’s all like yesterday and they still get mighty unhappy about past slights and fights and betrayals. Okay. Soooo. Leo may know stuff about Silandre.”

“I am quite certain that my master knows much about many of his sworn Mithrans.”

The scent hit me. I whirled to the doorway, in the middle of swallowing, and nearly choked. I had to put down my sandwich or drop it. Bruiser.

Speak of betrayal. Speak of the devil.

The memory rammed through me. Bruiser holding me down, letting Leo drink from me. My heart thudded painfully. I forced myself to inhale slowly. His scent filled my nostrils. It was . . . not the same, not quite the same, as I remembered. And I didn’t know why.

The energies and pheromones in the room stuttered and realigned yet again. Rick dropped his leg to the floor. He was professionally interested in the MOC’s primo. He was personally interested in my reaction to the primo. Soul sat forward. The boys dropped their heads and shoulders and as if looking at tablet screens, studied the rest of us beneath lowered brows. Eli was watching my reactions, amused. Which ticked me off.

The teens were whispering, “Dude, isn’t that MOC’s top human blood meal?”

And, “Be polite, man. He’s like, right here.”

Soul swept her hair back. She was interested in Bruiser in both professional and very personal ways. Her nostrils fluttered. She liked the way he smelled. Beast rose in me and I felt my eyes do that glow thing, which meant she was looking out at the world through me. Mates, she thought at me, struggling for control of my mind. Will fight for mates.

Crap, crap, crap on toast. My breath came fast as I wrestled Beast down; she snarled at me, showing killing teeth. I’d rather fight a score of rogue vamps than face a difficult social situation—and this was going to be bad. I just knew it.

In the shadows behind him I spotted the sheriff. Of course. Why not one more? Murphy’s Law was working overtime tonight. The sheriff hadn’t been involved in the cleanup of vamp bodies the last time I was here, so she might be a new player to them. She pushed past and into the dining room, going straight to Eli, who sat up and sucked in his already rock-hard stomach. Wry amusement pulled my mouth to the side. I shifted my attention back to the doorway. Back to George Dumas.

Eyes on Bruiser, I took a breath to force some sort of equanimity, lifted my sandwich, and bit in. Bruiser looked like a million dollars, spiffy in suit pants and polished loafers with tassels. His white dress shirt was rolled up to his elbows, his tie loose, and his suit coat was slung over his shoulder by one finger.

Bruiser shifted his eyes from Rick to me and smiled. Beast’s reaction started at my toes and curled up my body. Purring. He betrayed us, I thought at her. He was disloyal. Beast didn’t care.

Sylvia, who had eyes only for Eli, said, “We have more preliminary data on the dead found in Esther’s old lair. Nine vamps and forty-seven humans, twelve of them children.” The room went still and shocked. “The chief of police and I got a call from the governor offering any and all help. And then, on my way over, I got a report on more missing witches.”

The pheromones altered again, fast this time, to surprise and worry as we all turned to her. “Until today we weren’t sure, as the Acheé family wasn’t out of the closet, but it’s always been a good guess—a family of all women and few surviving males is indicative of a possible witch connection. And their neighbors claimed the women could grow vegetables year round.”

“How many?” Rick asked, standing and pulling a brand new, top-of-the-line cell phone out of his pocket to take notes.

“Four,” Sylvia said. “Three adults and a thirteen-year-old who hasn’t reached puberty.”

Puberty was when most witches come into their gifts. “But the kidnappers might not know that,” I said.

“Precisely. We have Crime Scene on the way there now. It isn’t a pretty sight.”

“Details,” Rick said.

“Introductions,” the sheriff said. If she had fangs, she would have been showing them. I chuckled softly and Rick sent me a glare that was all cat. Quickly, he returned his attention to the lady sheriff and smiled his million-dollar smile—which the sheriff totally ignored. He offered his intros, and Sheriff Turpin said, “You’re part of the help the governor promised us. Law enforcement of Adams County is always happy to work with PsyLED.” But her tone was dry and tight. Proper protocol would have been for Rick and Soul to report in to Sylvia before coming here, and she wanted them to know she didn’t appreciate the misstep.

I watched as Rick made nice-nice with Sylvia Turpin, LEO to LEO. They seemed to be okay, and I tuned them out, watching other players in the room.

Soul and Bruiser were looking each other over, a small smile on Bruiser’s face. They had met not that long ago, here in Natchez after the shootout. I had left the scene with Rick, and the glance they were exchanging suggested that the primo and Rick’s Soul had spent time together. And liked it. Crap. Inside, my Beast hissed.

Yeah, I thought at her. Me too.

“NPD is handling the lair. The Acheé place falls under my jurisdiction. We’re getting stretched thin, trying to keep citizens safe and run the crime scenes. First glance at blood spatter,” Sylvia said, bringing me back to the present, “indicates they fought back. Our local expert says it’s both Naturaleza vamp blood and witch. And the witches had silver-shot ammo on hand. It didn’t slow the vamps down.”