Bijou had no brothers. She hadn’t grown up in the environment Saria had. She knew about neglect and debauchery. She knew what alcohol and drugs could do to a man. But she had never experienced real violence, not like leopards were capable of. Remy couldn’t take his eyes off Drake. His leopard was at the ready. If for any reason, Drake needed him, he had to respond within seconds, and that meant he couldn’t be the one to reassure Bijou, no matter how much he wanted to do so.

“I lied. I lied,” Robert admitted, holding the side of his face. Blood seeped through his fingers and trickled down his arms. “I did know she was leopard. It was obvious at one point. I didn’t want Jean or Juste to think I’d turned on them.”

There it was—exactly where Drake had been leading Robert all along. Had Robert not claimed his loyalty was to the lair, Drake would have challenged him in a battle between leopards and Robert surely would have died. As it was, he had to answer any questions Remy or Drake posed, whether he liked it or not. Drake had been careful to keep every subject in the context of lair business. That was what Remy admired most about Drake. His leopard might be enraged, but he always kept his cool and thought clearly through every crisis. That trait was what made him such a great leader.

“I see,” Drake said. Deliberately he allowed the silence to stretch out, until Robert squirmed in his chair. “I’m going to give you one chance to come clean. We know about the break-ins, Robert. I want you to give Remy every detail. Every piece of evidence you can provide, anything at all that will help him put those men behind bars.”

The color drained out of Robert’s face. He opened his mouth but Drake held up his hand to stop him from speaking.

“One chance, Robert. I’ll know if you lie. Remy will know if you lie. You have a death sentence hanging over your head, so whatever the Rousseau brothers have on you, it will never be as bad as what I’ll do to you. Start talking.”

Robert licked his suddenly dry lips. Immediately Saria left the room to get him a drink of water. He swallowed several times. “They’ll kill me. They like to kill. They both call themselves bokor, a kind of priest for voodoo black magic. I don’ know if they really know what they’re doin’, but they hold regular rituals out in the swamp and sacrifice animals. They love to cut the heads off of chickens and spray the blood around. They call on demons. They even have a human skull they use for their rituals.”