“So fat people could get bitten by a were and lose weight every time the moon was full.”
“You’re a funny guy. Funny, funny guy.” But the mundane dull chitchat and the texture of his skin had relaxed me. “They get killed for biting a human. Not a good way to promote weight loss.”
“There is that. And they go furry once a month. Hard to hold down a job with that.” Rick returned his attention to the TV and switched between news channels to stop on CNN again, where they were playing an early-morning telephone interview with a Texas senator named Jones about the “problem with the supernatural creatures in our midst,” as he put it. Jones, his speech pattern stolen from small-town Southern Baptist preachers, said, “In species that live for cent-u-ries instead of decades, of what use are statutes of lim-i-ta-tion? And, how long is a life sentence for vampires, who live decades longer than real humans? How will we deal with the cost to the prison system in terms of prison cells that will be occupied for cent-u-ries? In terms of feeding the bloodsuckers? Keeping them safe from the sun? In terms of the confinement requirements to hold a creature that is so much stronger than humans. How do we control the foul things?”
“For vamps, you hire a vamp-killer,” I said to the screen, “and give them true-death, according to Mithran Law. Human law can’t apply. Which Congress will figure out sooner or later.”
“They haven’t so far,” Rick said, cynical and disparaging, “and it’s playing havoc with the legal system.”
Just to round out the hater of nonhumans, Jones added, “And these witches. The Holy Scriptures tells us that we ‘must not suffer a witch to live.’” He raised a finger toward the sky. “Our great country has already fallen far from God’s i-deal by allowing—”
Rick lowered the volume and switched through the news channels, the TV glare flashing with each channel jump. He said, “Even money says Jones likes small boys, and that he’ll propose a law that allows law enforcement officers to shoot first and ask questions later when it comes to weres, vamps, and witches.”
“Did you hear that?” I rolled back upright and took the remote, found the channel and raised the volume on the TV to hear the wolfman say, “... killed my grandfather, Henri Molyneux, and stole our hunting territory from us. Murder and grand theft.” He snarled, “I can prove Leo Pellissier is guilty of it. And”—he glared into the TV camera—“there’s no statute of limitations on murder.”
“Oh crap,” I muttered, seeing a sidebar photo of Leo, vampire Master of the City of New Orleans, dressed in a tuxedo, looking gorgeous and suave and anything but dangerous. I’d seen him wearing his other face, his vamped-out, creepy, and dangerous as a rabid wolf face. Though the wolf thought may not be politically acceptable now.
Rick laughed, half mocking, slanting his eyes at me. “Vacation’s over,” he said. “Your boss is accused of murder. You know he’ll want his pet rogue-vamp killer at his side.” He looked at the time on the screen. “It’s ten minutes to dawn. He’ll call. Five bucks.” He held out his hand to shake on the offered bet.
“You knew all about this,” I accused. Rick shrugged, not denying it. “And you offer me awful bets,” I grumbled. “No, thanks.” Five minutes later, my new cell phone chirped. Rick rolled out of bed, hunting up his clothes.
I answered the phone, which displayed Leo Pellissier’s private number.
CHAPTER 2
A Fighting Ring
“Morning, Leo. I’m watching the news and the so-called werewolf accusing you of murder,” I said in my professional, all-business tone.
“Good morning,” he said, sounding urbane and wry, the slight hint of French in his tone. “Yes. Such an accusation is unfortunate in several respects.”
No kidding, I thought. But I didn’t say it.
“Envoys of the IAW arrived in Washington, D.C., two weeks ago, and have been engaged in closed-door talks with the national Council of Mithrans and members of Congress about the changing geopolitical situation. At the same time, a high-level member of the Party of African Weres and his assistant were also sent to New Orleans to parley with me regarding their bid for worldwide recognition.”
I narrowed my eyes at Rick, who was watching me, a slight smile playing on his mouth. To Leo and Rick I said, “You didn’t think it important to tell me that were-cats were in town? For two weeks?”
Rick shrugged and mouthed, “Orders. Politics.” As he spoke, he reached for his phone vibrating on the cabinet top.
“The applicable phrase was ‘Need to know,’” Leo said, “and a vampire hunter had no need to know about weres. This unexpected allegation against me of werewolf murder may, however, significantly complicate matters with the cats, despite the fact that wolves and cats traditionally do not get along.”
Which was news to me. Everything about this situation was news to me. I was ticked off because I had been kept totally out of this loop and I shouldn’t have been.
“I require your presence to finalize the security upgrade for the Council building and to research what possible evidence the wolves might have against me.”
“And how am I going to do that?” I asked, just to yank his chain.
“You have access to certain files. You will use them.”
I could almost see his chin jut out in that “don’t push me” manner he has. I was pretty sure Leo was talking about the files from the woo-woo room in NOPD. The Master of the City knew the New Orleans Police Department kept files on all the supernats, including him. While he didn’t like it, he wasn’t averse to using them to his advantage.