exist,” Emmett said, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“You managed to wrap your jambalaya-stewed mind around vampires just fine. After I proved the point with a very fine ass-kicking.”
“That’s étouffée-simmered, and I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”
“Because I keep your backwater mind propped open?”
A smile quirked up one corner of Emmett’s mouth. “That’d be it.”
“Thing is, we need to find Baptiste,” Merri said, leaning back on the bed and resting on her elbows. “Maybe he headed home to New Orleans, maybe not. Galiana’s looking into it.”
Emmett opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was preempted by sudden rhythmic thuds shaking the wall, accompanied by a woman’s bored and toneless moans— “Yeah, that’s it. Uh-huh. Oh. Oh. Oh.” —and enthusiastic male grunts.
Again . One of the hazards of refuge by the hour.
Emmett glanced at his watch. “I’m gonna bet twenty this one’s done and snoozing in five minutes.”
“I’ve got your twenty. Three minutes, then out the door.”
Three minutes later, the steady thumping slowed, then stopped. Two minutes after that a faint snore buzzed through the wall.
A triumphant grin parted Emmett’s lips. “Given that we need our cash, I’ll take an IOU.”
“Generous. Just add it to my tab.”
“Roger that.” Emmett’s expression sobered. “Okay, before I was so noisily interrupted, I was gonna say, even if we find Baptiste, what’s to stop him from just flat-out killing us?” He jerked his head at the laptop resting on the ink-graffitied desk. “You saw what Bad Seed did to him, what he was twisted into. Hell, we even studied his handiwork in Seattle.”
Rodriguez stares up at the glass-domed ceiling light with half-lidded, milky eyes. His throat looks shredded, savaged . . .
“I’ve got a feeling that what we saw in Seattle was a case of Baptiste being used, his programming triggered,” Merri said. “Someone wanted Rodriguez dead, and they used Baptiste to do it.”
“Could be, yeah. And that someone could still be controlling Baptiste.”
“True,” Merri sighed. “That’s what we’ll have to figure out when we find him.”
“Like I said, what’s to stop him from flat-out killing us?”
“We’ve got something he’s going to want,” Merri replied. “You saw what those motherfuckers did to his memory.”
Emmett nodded, face grim. “Bastards tore it apart—more than once.”
“We can give him his past. Contained in a flash drive.”
“Would you be doing this if he wasn’t a True Blood?” Emmett asked quietly.
Merri sat back up, planted her elbows on her knees, and rested her chin in the cup of her hands. She met her partner’s steady gaze. “I’d like to think so,” she replied, “but I don’t know. His being a True Blood is a major factor for me. So is the fact that he was just a baby, a toddler, a child handed over to fuckedup people with fucked-to-shit agendas—just to see what would happen.”
“I hear you. I think of my kids and . . .” A muscle jumped in Emmett’s jaw. “But Baptiste isn’t a kid anymore, he’s twenty-three. He’s a killer. He’s proven that time and again. Bad Seed succeeded with him.”
“Did they? I’m not so sure. He protected the other kids in his foster homes, he loved—” She stopped talking, lifted her head, and held up a just-a-second hand as her mère de sang ’s welcome sending brushed across her thoughts.
Galiana al-Qibtiyah greeted. < We have received word that Dante Baptiste is in New Orleans. He is also involved in some local feud that has resulted in his house being burned to the ground, but I have no details. >
< But he’s all right? >
< As far as we know, > Galiana admitted. < And the llygaid are deeply troubled by their lack of knowledge about this young True Blood. >
Merri frowned. < Why’s that? >
< It seems the llygad in Baptiste’s household has been silent. No word
“You managed to wrap your jambalaya-stewed mind around vampires just fine. After I proved the point with a very fine ass-kicking.”
“That’s étouffée-simmered, and I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”
“Because I keep your backwater mind propped open?”
A smile quirked up one corner of Emmett’s mouth. “That’d be it.”
“Thing is, we need to find Baptiste,” Merri said, leaning back on the bed and resting on her elbows. “Maybe he headed home to New Orleans, maybe not. Galiana’s looking into it.”
Emmett opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was preempted by sudden rhythmic thuds shaking the wall, accompanied by a woman’s bored and toneless moans— “Yeah, that’s it. Uh-huh. Oh. Oh. Oh.” —and enthusiastic male grunts.
Again . One of the hazards of refuge by the hour.
Emmett glanced at his watch. “I’m gonna bet twenty this one’s done and snoozing in five minutes.”
“I’ve got your twenty. Three minutes, then out the door.”
Three minutes later, the steady thumping slowed, then stopped. Two minutes after that a faint snore buzzed through the wall.
A triumphant grin parted Emmett’s lips. “Given that we need our cash, I’ll take an IOU.”
“Generous. Just add it to my tab.”
“Roger that.” Emmett’s expression sobered. “Okay, before I was so noisily interrupted, I was gonna say, even if we find Baptiste, what’s to stop him from just flat-out killing us?” He jerked his head at the laptop resting on the ink-graffitied desk. “You saw what Bad Seed did to him, what he was twisted into. Hell, we even studied his handiwork in Seattle.”
Rodriguez stares up at the glass-domed ceiling light with half-lidded, milky eyes. His throat looks shredded, savaged . . .
“I’ve got a feeling that what we saw in Seattle was a case of Baptiste being used, his programming triggered,” Merri said. “Someone wanted Rodriguez dead, and they used Baptiste to do it.”
“Could be, yeah. And that someone could still be controlling Baptiste.”
“True,” Merri sighed. “That’s what we’ll have to figure out when we find him.”
“Like I said, what’s to stop him from flat-out killing us?”
“We’ve got something he’s going to want,” Merri replied. “You saw what those motherfuckers did to his memory.”
Emmett nodded, face grim. “Bastards tore it apart—more than once.”
“We can give him his past. Contained in a flash drive.”
“Would you be doing this if he wasn’t a True Blood?” Emmett asked quietly.
Merri sat back up, planted her elbows on her knees, and rested her chin in the cup of her hands. She met her partner’s steady gaze. “I’d like to think so,” she replied, “but I don’t know. His being a True Blood is a major factor for me. So is the fact that he was just a baby, a toddler, a child handed over to fuckedup people with fucked-to-shit agendas—just to see what would happen.”
“I hear you. I think of my kids and . . .” A muscle jumped in Emmett’s jaw. “But Baptiste isn’t a kid anymore, he’s twenty-three. He’s a killer. He’s proven that time and again. Bad Seed succeeded with him.”
“Did they? I’m not so sure. He protected the other kids in his foster homes, he loved—” She stopped talking, lifted her head, and held up a just-a-second hand as her mère de sang ’s welcome sending brushed across her thoughts.
< But he’s all right? >
< As far as we know, > Galiana admitted. < And the llygaid are deeply troubled by their lack of knowledge about this young True Blood. >
Merri frowned. < Why’s that? >
< It seems the llygad in Baptiste’s household has been silent. No word
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