Free Crossed by J. F. Lewis Page A

shielding.” Melvin rubbed his nose with a well-worn square of faded cloth, then swabbed his brow with it. “I’m going to set a class nine detection web on the area, piggyback it on what’s here in case someone decides to use any magic.”
    Damn it.
“Go ahead,” I huffed as if the precaution wasn’t necessary, and looked up at the tiered signs of the Iversonian’s self-titled club. “IVER,” “SON,” and “IAN” were staggered up the side of the massive white building. It looked better at night. “I wasn’t planning anything, just showed up early to be certain Winter didn’t have any strange ideas about a peaceful meeting.”
    “Fair enough.” Melvin blew his nose on the cloth and squirreled it away in his jumpsuit pocket, putting himself right back into the “never in a million years” category. Not that I didn’t watch him cast the spell. He worked magic like he’d been doing it all his life, and I realized that he had.
    “How young?” I asked as he walked toward the van.
    “My earliest memory is sitting in front of the High Magus and listening as he decided what to do with me. I think I was two or three.”
    Shit!
    “It should be safe to cast in this area in two or three hours, but before then”—he winked at me and climbed into the driver’s seat—“I wouldn’t.”
    Clouds of exhaust spat free of the public works van as he drove off. A guy like that could write his own check, bea member of the High Council. What the hell was he doing working jobs like this—routine service calls for a fricking vampire? I’d used him before when I’d tried to have Eric’s soul captured, but I’d never realized how much he’d been worth the money.
    My cell chirped. Another text. This one from Talbot.
    Shenanigans, where you at?

    Talbot was just as bad as the damn thralls, spelling everything out like textspeak was below him. And don’t get me started on the stupid nickname.
    FU cat.

    Play it your way, Shenanigans. His message flashed up, vibrating even as I sent my reply. I hate it when he does that. Eric wants me to find out what the hell was going on with the gang bang honeymoon. You have anything you want to tell me?
    “Fuck! Of all the times Eric picks to be curious!” I stabbed the number for the Irons Club into my cell. It wasn’t really where I’d learned how to be a thrall, but I’d been there with J’iliol’lth and with Roger. People knew me there, and though they might not like the way I’d gotten free of my contracts, my current master was more important than any of theirs, so they’d have to talk.
    “Irons Club. This is Gregory speaking. How may I assist you?”
    “This is Rachel Sims, thrall to the Emperor Eric.” I heard an intake of breath, close to a gasp at the sound of Eric’s name. Greg’s a stuck-up ass with a limp, but he knows his place. “I need a gallon of werewolf blood and I need it in less than an hour.”
    He scoffed. “That is quite the—”
    “Can you get it here or not?” I looked at the skyline. Dark was coming too quickly, sunset in progress. I needed to be done with the call before Winter showed. Why couldn’t Talbot have texted me earlier?
    “He’s never asked for anything like this before, and I’m not sure where else to get it,” I dissembled. “The Irons Club keeps a stock of exotic blood for when the rich and powerful with thralls to match want something out of season, right? Money is not—”
    “We can provide it, of course, but the Irons Club is not a vending machine or a mercantile, Ms. Sims. We are a group of like-minded individuals united to assist each other in serving our masters to the utmost. You can have the werewolf blood to make your master happy, but . . .” He paused for a second, enjoying having me in a tight spot. “You will not receive our assistance in exchange for any level of monetary compensation. You will owe us a favor and you will respect the rules and regulations of the Irons Club.”
    I held the phone to