Mercy Blade

CHAPTER 13 I Intend to Make You Regret That Decision

I wove through rush hour traffic on Bitsa, rush hour actually being more like rush afternoon, one huge snarl of traffic and exhaust fumes and boiling, wet heat. On the way home, I stopped for a few groceries that Evangelina had texted me that we needed, and managed to get a half gallon of milk and five pounds of flour into the saddlebags, fruit and veggies piled on top of the files I’d copied. Even with the traffic, I got back home just after seven. Evangelina’s rental car wasn’t parked in front, and the house was dark, no wonderful smells of cooking food greeted me when I parked Bitsa beside the back stairs and opened the door. After unloading the groceries, I slid two stakes into my hair and opened a Snickers bar to meet my caloric needs, eating standing in the dusk-dimmed room at the kitchen sink.

“I thought I heard someone.”

I identified Bruiser’s voice before I tried to draw a weapon, but my heart jumped painfully. He was standing in the opening between the kitchen and sitting room, the space dim, the houses close on each side keeping out the last rays of the sun. Now that I knew he was there, I could smell him, freshly showered; his aftershave, a citrusy scent that was all man, lay faintly on the air. I could tell he had been sitting alone in the silence, which seemed like a not-so-smart decision when one was under so much strain. It seemed like an act that might lead to depression or drinking or something even worse. “You said there would be dinner. A three-star chef.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, but he did sound oddly detached, almost despondent.

“She’s her own woman. Comes and goes as she wants.” I crushed the Snickers wrapper and dropped it in the trash. “There’s steak in the fridge.”

“You know how to cook steak?” he asked, his voice warming slightly.

“Light a match under it. If it doesn’t kick, it’s dead and done. Toss it on a plate, put a baked potato to the side with sour cream, toss a spinach salad for the vegetable lovers, and pour a beer.”

“I’d like my steak with at least a pretence of brown on the outside.”

“Wimp.”

Bruiser laughed, the sound startled. When it passed he said, “Thank you. I needed that.”

“You’re welcome. Question. Did you know that Leo was ... let’s call it playing pimp with Kemnebi and me?” A bit of Beast growled out with the words playing pimp.

Bruiser stilled at the sound. He breathed out a soft, “No. I didn’t.” He shifted in the dark, an uneasy sound, edgy and brooding. His pheromones smelled of annoyance, which was a peculiar blend of uncertainty and anger. “I knew he was curious how Kemnebi would react to your scent.” His words grew stilted as he added, “That is bloody well all.”

I let that hang between us for a moment and said, “Grill’s on the side porch. Take it into the back yard to light it so we don’t burn down the upper porch. I’ll bring out the steaks and some beer.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to retire to your bedroom first, for some R and R? It would be”—he thought a moment—“healthy and healing for both of us.”

Healthy and healing? “First off, your timing sucks. And second, as pickup lines go that one is at the very bottom of awful. Rick bought me the grill. It was a one month anniversary gift.” Yet he hadn’t called.

Bruiser walked to me through the early evening shadows, a murky shape that undulated like a form seen through a rainrunneled window. My heart did a bebop move; I gripped the cabinet at the sink to steady myself, half ready to dart away, though I never ran—not ever. “I’m a one-man woman,” I said. “I don’t play around.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “Not with you.”

Beast reared up fast, seeing the man through my eyes. She purred once, the vibration in my mind so strong I thought it must have escaped, but Bruiser didn’t react. Beast breathed in through my mouth and nostrils, smelling, tasting, wanting him. Good mate, she thought, strong, powerful. She gathered herself, holding me down and distant. Bruiser stopped so close I could feel his body heat through our clothes. He paused, watching me, his eyes looking down at me, and it felt so odd to be small beside a man. I could feel his breath on my neck and chest, an unfamiliar sensation. I managed the word, “No.” It came out breathy and uncertain. I firmed my voice and said again, “No.”

Beast raised my head and breathed in his scent, holding me firm and steady. I couldn’t step away or run, and when I stood there, like an offering, Bruiser lifted a hand and slid it around my nape, holding me gently, his palm warm and calloused from weapon use. He raised his other hand, cradling my face, his fingers long and elegant and strong. His voice a burr of sound, he said, “I intend to make you regret that decision.” Slowly, he brought his face down to mine, the motion disorienting. I could hit him. Knock him out. Throw him out of the house.

Beast laughed. Good mate. Rick gone. Want this one.

And then his lips touched mine. Slowly. Gently. Sliding back and forth on my mouth. I could taste him, his breath warm on my skin. I closed my eyes and sighed. Parted my mouth. Rested my face in his hand. And he pulled away, just as slowly. “I’ll get the grill going.”

Beast released me, stepped back, and I propped myself on the counter. “I’ll bring the food.” My voice sounded normal, not breathy and aroused, which was a surprise. I intend to make you regret that decision. Crap. I was in trouble. Beast huffed with laughter and withdrew, but I could still feel her claws in my mind, pressing and withdrawing, and the breath-stealing sensation of Beast in control of my body. I watched Bruiser as he left the house, his image still wavering and shadowy through the window.

I could have run. Could have locked myself in my room. Instead I pulled my cell and looked for a call from Rick. Nothing. Nada. Not a voice mail, not a text, zero, zip, zilch. I hit his number on speed dial and listened to the ring. Again, I was shunted to voice mail and hesitated a moment after the beep. “It’s Jane. Call me. Please.” Short, polite, not whiny. And I broke the connection. Through the window, I saw a gout of flame as Bruiser started the charcoal.

I dug out a half dozen small Idaho potatoes from among Evangelina’s supplies, wrapped them in damp paper towels, and put them in the microwave. Spinach; tomato; pickles; sliced pickled onion; cold, crumbled bacon from a container in the fridge; some fresh sliced mushrooms I had picked up at the market; and goat cheese. I tossed it all together, with Evangelina’s vinaigrette dressing to the side. When the potatoes were hot, though still not fully cooked, I took them from the microwave and wrapped them in aluminum foil. I twisted the tops off two beers, put four more into a cool pack with ice, took two steaks out of the fridge and dropped them into a zip-lock baggie with some salt and a few pinches of Evangelina’s premixed meat spices, set them into a separate cool pack, and set everything on a large platter. After a moment’s thought, I added a third steak and an additional salad bowl in case Evangelina came home in time. Preparing dinner felt homey, settled, and far too comfortable after the kiss. I carried the raw steaks, potatoes, salads, and the beer outside. To Bruiser.

The sun was still above the horizon, casting long shadows, the day still humid and heavy with summer. Bruiser had lit citronella candles to fight off mosquitoes, and had rearranged the furniture from the side porches, bringing down a table from the second floor, moving deck chairs around to suit him. I had lived in the house for months and had never used the furniture.

Standing beside the flaming grill, he was watching me. Like a predator. Focused and alert, his body a silhouette against the brick wall enclosing the garden and the leafy plants thriving there. He turned away from me and his movements were economical, smooth as a dancer’s. That was one of the gifts of vamp-blood sips—to live over a hundred years and still have the lithe body of a young man. He glanced over his shoulder once as I approached, holding my gaze.

I shouldn’t be here. I should run. But I never ran, not from anything. Running from Bruiser would be ... stupid. This was my house, my den, my territory. Bruiser wasn’t a wild animal wanting to kill me or steal my hunting territory.

I set the potatoes to the side, in the grill’s cooler coals, and handed him a beer, our fingers brushing, mine cold, his hot from the coals. Standing a foot apart, we sipped in silence, the sun now a bright ball on the tops of the ancient buildings of the Quarter. Bruiser leaned to the side and turned on a CD player, a fusion of swing, Latin, and soul, and the mixed percussion of island influences, a number that thrummed into my blood, making me want to move. But he sat in a deck chair, and though my feet said, dance, I sat in the chair beside him, both of us facing the setting sun as the music lazed its heated way into the dusk and coals grew hot. Fixing supper with a man wasn’t something new. I did it all the time with Ricky Bo. But this was different. This was Bruiser. And Rick, for whatever reason, had deserted me.

Discomfort wormed under my skin. I had no idea what to do or say. There were things I wanted to know about Bruiser and hadn’t found the opportunity to ask, but he beat me to an opening conversational gambit, with, “Why do you have boulders in the garden? Why were they so necessary that you included them in your contract?” When I didn’t answer, he added, “And why are they broken? I saw the landscaper’s bill and I know they were whole, river-rounded boulders when they were put in.”

Secrets. Things I couldn’t say. So much for conversation. Possible lies ran through my head, but I’m not good at keeping lies in order; I always make mistakes when I lie. So I had to find a version of the truth I could share. When the silence beneath the music built, Bruiser turned his head my way, waiting patiently.

I said, “There’s a spell on them called hedge of thorns.” Truth. “The spell works best with boulders.” Lie, but acceptable. “I meditate. The stones help me to slide into the proper state easily.” Truth. “If a client agrees to put in boulders, then it’s an indication that he’s serious about fulfilling his part of the contract and about paying me. I’ve been stiffed for the bill in the past.” Truth but stupid. Okay, I could live with it. So far. I sipped, and wished, for the hundredth time, that my skinwalker metabolism didn’t burn alcohol out of my system so fast. I could use some chemical relaxation right now.

“And the broken stones? You don’t beat them with a sledgehammer while meditating.”

“The spell breaks them.” Lie. Total lie. But better than I break them when I shift mass into and out of the stone when I change into a larger or smaller creature. Much better.

But I’d begun to wonder if calcite or aragonite might be better, easier to use than granite, being composed of calcium carbonate, which seemed structurally closer to human composition. Calcium carbonate was the most common mineral in caves with stalactites and stalagmites, and my earliest memories of shifting had begun in a cave with those formations—

“Jane?”

I jerked my gaze to him. “Sorry. Woolgathering.” His quizzical look suggested that I was lying, or at least not telling a complete truth. “Hedge of thorns is a powerful spell. That black ring”—I pointed to the grass—“all around the stones is from one use. The stones contribute to the efficacy of the spell. Molly tried to explain it to me once, but I didn’t follow.” A mixture of truth and lies. I hated this. Bruiser studied my face, a half smile on his, seeming content to let a silence build between us. Which made me nervous for reasons that had less to do with lying than with the amused heat in his gaze.

Mentally, I floundered through the list of things I wanted to know about him and blurted out, “How old were you when you first drank vamp blood?”

Bruiser raised his head and hooted with laughter. “Good Lord, you do know how to cut to the heart of the matter, don’t you, Jane Yellowrock? Why not ask me at what age I gave up my virginity?”

Before I could think, I said, “What age?” Oh crap. I felt Beast chuff a laugh as she twisted around my control in a lithe S-shape and stared at Bruiser with my eyes. As if he saw something different in me, Bruiser focused on me like a laser. I/ we/Beast stared back. Look away is loss of dominance, she thought at Bruiser. I will not submit. I scrabbled at control, reaching for Beast. For a moment it seemed I felt pelt and ribs beneath my palms. The sensation rocked me.

“I was sixteen,” he said. “They were female vampires with a predilection for young boys.” Beast chuffed with silent delight. “Do you want to know more? There will be a price if you do.”

“No,” I said, holding Beast silent. “I don’t bargain blind.”

Bruiser tilted his bottle back and drained the beer, his throat catching the evening light. Lifting the bottle away from his lips, he smiled at the sky and he said, “I’ll tell you more. But I’ll require a ... dance as payment.”

“Done.” Bruiser laughed, and I shivered inside at the sound. My big mouth would be the death of me. But both Beast and I loved to dance. “But the choice of the dance is mine.” The words came from my mouth, sounding sensual and warm and ... something that was not me. Not at all. Beast was close to the surface, powerful, aroused, and curious. Curiosity killed the cat, I thought at her.

Greater than five lives, she thought back at me. And I could feel her heat, her desire. Beast liked Bruiser. A lot. But I wasn’t going to play around on Ricky Bo. With a mental move better attributed to the dojo than to conversation, I flipped Beast over and kicked. Though my body hadn’t moved, I felt my foot impact her. She spat, spun, and raced out of reach, but I could feel her claws in me, painful, piercing.

Bruiser settled back, a smile on his face every bit as predatory as any expression Beast had ever worn. Dangerous. This was dangerous. And the worst part was that more than half of me didn’t mind it at all.

He opened two more beers and handed one to me. I took it. “I was nearly seventeen. Bethany and Katie and Leo were living together most of the time, sharing a lair.” He smiled at the sky, and the lower rim of sun slid below the tops of the buildings, throwing darkness over us, cloaking his expression in shadow, but not before I saw the memory of desire there. Potent. Strong. Even after nearly a hundred years. He glanced at me. “We danced there once, you and I.” His voice was hot coals and brandy, warming and volatile when mixed together.

Something new blossomed deep in my belly, heating me, radiating outward, warming my skin. Electric sparks danced just beneath the surface of my flesh, pricking and sharp. This wasn’t Beast. This was me, all me, half angry and brutal, half needy and lonely. Fear rolled through on top of the need, icy and tingling, mixing with the heat to make something I had no name for. “I remember,” I said, not looking away from him. I remembered every step, every move, every undulation. Crap, crap, crap. I’m in such big trouble.

“Bethany and Katie thought a boy of sixteen and still a virgin was abnormal, but then, they come from more primitive times, violent by today’s standards; boys became men much earlier in the past. And though it was the twentieth century, and the sexual development of males was very different from their time, they fancied me,” he said, sounding very British in that moment. He drank down the beer, leaving only a few inches in the bottom.

“They made plans, they did. They got Leo’s favorite female blood-servant drunk—deeply drunk—on brandy and gave her to him. He drank from her and when he was finished with her they brought me in to him. And he drank from me.” Bruiser finished off the beer and opened a third. The sun caught on his skin, on the sheen of perspiration, glistening rosy and gold. When he offered me another beer I held up my full bottle, refusing. “The first time a Mithran mesmerizes and drinks from a human is ... electric. An experience that can only be compared to a state of drunken euphoria. Drunk on champagne, the finest brandy, the best liquors, and joy and laughter and ... desire. For a boy, not yet a man, it was overwhelming.

“When Leo finished, he gave me a sip of his blood.” Bruiser swiveled his head to me, his eyes bright in the drawing night. Shadows crossed his face, stark and discordant against the reddish light thrown by the coals, and by the gold and vermilion sky overhead. “And he swore to protect me and keep me safe for as long as I lived.” His mouth curled down, and I knew he was thinking that Leo was foresworn. His master had thrown him out.

His voice was amazed and impotent and empty when he ground out, “I have never since felt anything similar to that first taste. It was like lightning made alive. Like stars made liquid. Like the moon made into air to be breathed into my lungs to give me life.” He took a breath, his chest moving as if with pain. “It was like riding a wild, icy river beneath a full moon.” Bruiser finished off his third beer, staring at the evening sky.

“And the women took me from him.” There was something in his tone when he said, “the women took me from him.” It matched the melancholy mood I’d noted already. He slanted a look at me, the alcohol riding him hard, consumed so quickly on an empty stomach. “Do you want details?” he asked, his mouth turning up, his mood mercurial, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“No,” I said. I rotated my bottle, spinning it slowly in my fingers. Leo let them take him. Just like he let the cops accuse him today. Then he kicked Bruiser out. Leo was a son of a bitch. And even Beast knew this experience of Bruiser’s was something painful and sexual and wicked and wrong. She didn’t press for particulars, but hunched out of sight, letting me be alpha without a fight. Finally. “The coals are ready,” I said, my eyes on the bottle, not looking his way.

“There is something about the sight of you that makes me want to tell you anyway.” The threat hung between us as if balanced on the blade of a knife. “But I’m hungry.” Bruiser stood and put two of the steaks on the grill. They sizzled and spat and my mouth started to water. The moment, whatever it was, was broken.

Relief and disappointment in equal measure flooded through me. I should have made him go to a hotel. This was such a mistake, letting him stay here, preparing dinner under the setting sun. Everything, a mistake. I finished my beer and Bruiser went back inside for more while the meat cooked. I wasn’t so sure that letting him get rip-roaring drunk was a good idea, but I wasn’t sure that stopping him would be any smarter. There were many ways to mourn, and Bruiser was mourning Leo, mourning a way of life currently, and perhaps forever lost to him. In which case he would age and die in a matter of years.

I still had to mourn my own past, the death of my father, and I had no idea how to go about grieving that ancient loss. So who was I to make suggestions? I kept my mouth shut.

Beast settled to her haunches deep inside me and groomed her claws, her tongue cleaning the curved, sharp edges. When Bruiser dished up the food, five minutes later, she withdrew in disgust, hissing, Cooked dead meat. I let her go, feeling relief at her departure.

The sky above was deep shades of vermilion, cerise, and plum when we cut into the steaks. The lights of the city blazed into the night, and the music grew torpid and languorous as Bruiser’s selections changed, and we ate. And Beast crept back, like a big-cat through tall grasses, peering for prey, wanting ... something. Something more.

When we were both done eating, the sky was plum, cerulean, and indigo, and Bruiser gathered up our plates, carrying them to the dark house. When he returned, he said, “I apologize for becoming maudlin.” He turned up the music, lit more citronella candles to fight off the insects, and held out a hand. “Will it make up for my faux pas to offer you that dance I promised?”

My lips twitched. Bruiser wasn’t one to wallow in his misery. I appreciated that. The mood between us lightened once again, and Beast hunched, tail twitching. I said, “My choice. Merengue, ballroom style.”

Bruiser let a half smile show. “Club merengue is more fun, more relaxed.” It was also much more sensual, erotic, and suggestive. Beast tightened all over at the thought, but no way was I dancing club merengue with Bruiser. When I shook my head, he sighed melodramatically and changed the CD to a four beat Latin dance number, something fast and sophisticated. He had a great collection of music and I wondered how much of his big suitcase had been packed with CDs. “Come, little girl,” he said.

I started to dispute the little girl comment, but then, he was taller than I. I stood and placed my right hand into his left out to the side at eye level, his right went on my waist. He pulled me closer, his knee between my legs, our right hips touching. I started to protest, but, knees slightly bent, he led me into the merengue, our hips moving, swaying left and right in the closed position of the dance. “Not quite ballroom style,” I murmured into his ear.

“No. Not quite.” We stepped side to side for several measures, creating a wind, candle flames juddering and stuttering as we moved, our faces so close we might have kissed, eyes meeting in the dark. “Better. Much better than classical.” Bruiser pushed me gently into a turn, and another, and another more intricate pretzel as we found our balance and rhythm. “The merengue was always a dance of the masses,” he said, his words matching the beat, “of mating and loving and drums beating a wildness into the air, into the blood. It has always been hot island nights under the stars and firelight and the spiced liquor of love.” He took my free hand so we were swirling around each other and under our arms, releasing one hand when needed, retaking it when a move was completed.

Beast liked the dance, panting into my mind, her breath warm as the music. Content to be beta, seeming content to be led. “No stars here,” I said as he turned me, his mouth at my ear.

“But mating and loving ...” He slid both hands to my hips, the sensual rocking of hips up and down and around in a figure eight. “... we play at that with every step, every move.”

The rhythm was constant but the pace of the moves sped and slowed, our hips meeting and withdrawing, meeting and withdrawing in a dance that shouldn’t have been this sensual, this intense. Beast nudged my hips, pressing forward against Bruiser’s pelvis, easing back. Rocking left and right, followed by a rotating gyre. Not something I had ever done with a partner, but only when dancing alone on a crowded dance floor.

Beast hummed in my ear, “Mine ...”

Bruiser pulled me closer, the suggestion pure sex, a physical demanding. “There is so much more between us than play, Jane.”

I should have tucked tail and run. But I didn’t. And it wasn’t Beast holding me here, but Bruiser’s hands low on my hips. One hand rose, sliding up my side, slowly, so slowly, just missing the outside of my breast, which sent electric pulses through me. My breath sped. My heart raced.

A century of seduction teased his hand along my collarbone and shoulder, down my arm to my hand, which he clasped, holding me with his eyes all the way. Challenging me. The look a dare. The hand on my hip slid around, pulled me closer, resting low on my back at the top of my buttocks, massaging with every step.

“No. Play is all there is,” I whispered back. “I have Rick.”

Bruiser’s eyes came alight and he showed teeth in a wicked smile. My blood pounded, following the percussive beat of the music. Our skin was slick with sweat from the humid night and the glowing coals, our hands sliding through perspiration, flesh heated beneath. “But he is gone. And I am here.” There was an overt anger in the words, and I heard what he didn’t say. Leo was gone too. And Bruiser had no one else.

His hands tilted my pelvis up against him, leading me to a sudden stop. We stood, poised, chest to chest, our breaths matched and rapid, a single beat of immobility, then, slowly, slower than the fast-paced beat of the song, he stepped to the formal, closed position where he held me, his breath on my mouth, my chest to his, our pelvises melded together, his thigh pressing intimately against me.

“I’m here and I want you. And you want me.” My eyes were locked to his in the dim light of the candles, close and intense. Bruiser dipped his head as if to kiss me, his mouth a breath away, taunting, teasing, and then stepped to the side, resuming the dance.

He led us into a series of turns as the music built, rose, and fell. Our pelvises thrust and withdrew, curling closer and away. The urgency of our movements increased as the musical number drew to a close, the drums rising to a fever pitch. He thrust me away and under one arm and back, his lead demanding as the beat. Twirled me hard, slinging my hair around us, and slammed me back. And we ended the dance with my spine against the front of his body, his arms and mine all wrapped around me. Prisoning me. His hands on the flat of my stomach, under my tee, skin to skin.

We were breathing hard, our hearts beating harder. Bruiser’s face was near my ear, his breath moving my hair back and forth. My braid had come partly undone, the wisps and longer strands wrapped around us, sticking to our skin, hot and damp with sweat.

Beast purred deep within me. Satisfied yet wanting more of this potent music, this powerful dance. It is alive, like the hunt, like the play with prey, she thought.

Cat and mouse, I thought back. But which of us is the mouse? I was afraid it was me.

The music changed, a slower number beginning. I tried to step away, but Bruiser held us still for the first two beats of the measure and then stepped to the side. Pivoted my body around and led me into the steps, to the side, slowly, then back and forth in a quick-quick pattern.

I recognized a bolero, danced to a slow rumba rhythm, a conga and bongos providing percussion. The bolero was a deliberate, measured, romantic dance, always performed staring into the partner’s eyes. The heat of the merengue began to segue into a different kind of heat, deeper, more intense, more hungry. Rick is not here, Beast thought. Rick no longer protects his territory. We find another, stronger predator/mate. She kicked out, slamming me away, and undulated against Bruiser.

I needed to stop this. I needed to get away. But Beast wanted more. Much more. Damn Ricky Bo. Why hadn’t he called? He could have called. ... And damn Beast for reminding me that big-cats don’t mate for life.

Bruiser’s hand moved against my back, along my spine with each slow belly ripple, each slow turn, and I could feel the pressure and heat and texture of it. I couldn’t pull away. “I want you,” he murmured. “I want you in my bed, under me. Moving like this. I want you with me forever.”

Rick had never said that. Rick had never said the forever word. Rick never said the love word. Inside, something in me broke, silent and wounded. Only a month, I thought back at the broken part. We’ve been together only a month. And Bruiser’s had a century to perfect the art of seduction. To learn the moves to make and the words to say to get inside a girl’s pants. He’s looking for a place to be, searching for a new den to claim. Deserted and alone, just like me. But he’s a blood-servant. I can’t forget that. His allegiance is to Leo, even after Leo kicked him out.

The emptiness in his eyes called to me. Lost and lonely, it sank its teeth into me, hooked its claws into me, and claimed a small place inside my soul. And I let him lead me, knowing it was dangerous, knowing it was foolish, knowing this might be taking me where I didn’t want to go. And inside me, something else wept and raged.

The turns of the bolero were almost stately, but the position and movement of our bodies was sensual, sinuous, supple. And he never released my gaze, holding me, holding Beast, with his eyes as firmly as his hands.

The darkness grew, the moon below the horizon, the candles flickering as a slow wind rose. The steps pulled us together and away, only millimeters apart but it seemed so much farther until we met again in a clench that bespoke sexual, teasing, unsatisfied need. My back to his chest again, his hands moved to my abdomen, caressing, leaving aching need in the wake of his hands. As the song drew to a close, he turned me to face him and his hand lifted, cupped my jaw, sliding along my neck, shoulder, down my waist to my hip. He cupped my bottom and drew me closer. In, up against him. Against his hardness.

And the lights went on in the house behind us. “Jane?”

I jerked away. Breaking his hold on me. The heat between us throbbed once with need. Evangelina was home. Crap. And, Thank God ...

“Back here,” I called. “Streak’s on the grill.” Shaking, I opened the cool pack and laid the last steak over the dying coals, pushed the last potato over so it would be heated evenly, and tossed the leftover salad. It was wilted but the night was dark. Maybe she wouldn’t notice.

“Jane,” Bruiser said, his voice close. I stiffened and the coals flared up again in front of me, the heat searing. I stepped back from it quickly. Into his arms. He closed them around me, trapping me. “This is not over, between us.” When I didn’t reply, he said, “Nod if you understand.”

I nodded and he stepped away just as Evangelina opened the door and walked out onto the porch; someone was behind her. It was Tyler. Tyler stopped on the porch, as if surprised, and the two men measured one another for a moment. “We only marinated three steaks,” Bruiser said. “We’ll need to get another from the fridge.”

“I’ve eaten,” Tyler said, his voice betraying no emotion.

“Well I haven’t,” Evangelina said. “I’m starved. Beer?” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll get a bottle of wine. Beer or wine, red or white, Tyler?”

“Wine, please. Red.”

“I have a lovely Spanish Garnacha that will do nicely with steak,” she said as she whirled and returned to the house, leaving us three outside.

“I wondered if you came here,” Tyler said in his careful, noncommittal tone.

“Safe port in a storm.” Bruiser gave a negligent shrug. “Isn’t that what you called it? How are the negotiations going? Anything I can help with?”

“Negotiations?” I asked, not happy being compared to a safe body of water.

Beast is not safe, she said to me, insulted.

To me, Bruiser said, “Tyler has taken over security measures at the council house and at Leo’s clan home. And all other of my duties, I would imagine.” Bruiser gave a slight smile, cool and collected. “I imagine security concerns have been pushed into the background with the police investigation and the arrival of the DipSec people.”

DipSec. Diplomatic Security. Got it.

“Not at all. I spoke with Leo only a half hour ago. He wants you to handle the witch negotiations, and to move ahead briskly. His words.” The tone was scornful, mocking, and though I didn’t know what was going on exactly, it was clear that there was bad blood between the two men. Grudgingly, Tyler added, “Katie is being cared for by Sabina in the protective custody of the clan home. She is well, though still in the devoveo of healing.” That sounded like Leo’s message too, though Tyler didn’t specify so.

Bruiser inclined his head with a falsely pleasant air, but I could feel the satisfaction in him. He took the job as some kind of affirmation from Leo, and maybe it was. Tyler seemed unhappy about it. “Has Leo fed from you yet, or are you still second to me?”

Tyler almost snarled, “Your prime place is still secure.”

I had thought the men friends, or, if not pals, at least good coworkers, comfortable acquaintances. I was wrong. Tyler turned his cold stare to me and I recalled the body search that had ended with Tyler on the ground and his windpipe in my hands. Tyler was remembering it too, and he wasn’t someone who forgot a disgrace or a slight no matter how minor. His gaze dropped to my breasts and along my body, an insulting perusal, and back to my eyes, promising that a rematch would end differently. We understood one another perfectly, like two junkyard dogs understand one another without a bark or a snarl being exchanged. I had embarrassed him in front of Leo, so he wanted me dead. Simple as a dogfight. I laughed softly and said, “Get in line, Sugar. Get in line.” Rage, icy as a mountain stream seemed to roil from him. Beast hissed, close in my mind.

Tyler’s eyes sparkled with hate and a promise of retribution, but before he could act on it, Evangelina opened the door and stepped out, carrying a wine carafe and two glasses, a plate, utensils, and a happy, chatty attitude that shut down the malicious emotional tides. They swirled like undercurrents through the next hour of chitchat but never resurfaced, and Tyler left before ten, pleading a busy day working for Leo. It was a last jibe at Bruiser, who smiled and lifted his fifth—or was it his sixth?—bottle of beer in drunken good humor. As soon as Tyler’s car roared off, Bruiser excused himself and went up the stairs. Evangelina looked at me, perplexed. “Was it something I said?”

“No. They’re just being pissant men.” And with that I went to bed too, locking my bedroom door against a possible return of Bruiser’s amorous interest. I stood under the shower as the cold water sluiced off the sweat of the dance and my arousal, and I wished for icy mountain well water to stand under instead of the South’s tepid version. Feeling better, I pulled on shorts and a tee. Having guests was a pain, I thought, as I threw myself across my bed and closed my eyes. Maybe I should invest in some pj’s.

It was after two a.m. Saturday morning when I woke with a start, realizing that I had left the dishes for Evangelina. And then I heard the sound that had woken me.