Otherworld Chills

ONE

“So what kind of stories do you cover?” my date asked, bathing my face in champagne fumes. “Bat Boy Goes to College? Elvis Shrine Found on Mars?” He laughed without waiting for me to answer. “God, I can’t believe people actually buy those rags. Obviously, they must, or you wouldn’t have a job.”

My standard line flew to my lips, something about tabloids functioning as a source of entertainment—quirky pieces of fiction that people could read and chuckle over before facing the horrors of the daily paper. I choked it back and forced myself to smile up at him.

“I did a Hell Spawn feature once,” I said, as brightly as I could manage. “That’s True News’ version of Bat Boy. I covered his graduation from kindergarten. He was so cute, up there with a little mortar and board perched on his horns …”

I crossed my fingers under my cocktail napkin and prayed for “the look,” the curl of the lip, the widening of the eyes as he frantically searched for an escape. Escape would be so easy—a crowded museum gala, everyone in evening wear … Come on, Douglas, just excuse yourself to go to the bathroom and conveniently forget where you left me.

He threw back his head and laughed. “Hell Spawn’s kindergarten graduation? Now that’s a fun job. You know what the highlight of my workweek is? Nine holes of golf with the other AVPs and I hate golf.”

That was the problem with guys like Douglas—they weren’t evil. Boring, boorish, and borderline obnoxious, but not so awful that I could justify abandoning them. So I was stuck hoping he’d be the one to declare the date a dud and beg off early.

When my boss gave me tickets to the museum gala, I’d needed a date, and I’d thought of Douglas—my mom had been trying to set us up for months. It seemed like the perfect solution. He’d agreed, and suggested dinner first. That had been a mistake. I should have insisted we meet here, at the party, so if things didn’t go well, we’d only have been sentenced to a couple of hours of each other’s company. But when he invited me to dinner, even as I’d been thinking No! my mouth had done the polite thing, and said, “Sure, that’d be great.”

I’d spent forty-five minutes at the table by myself, fending off sympathetic “You’ve been stood up” looks from the servers, and going through two glasses of water. Then Douglas had arrived … and I’d spent the next hour listening to him complain about the cause of his lateness, some corporate calamity too complex for my layperson’s brain to comprehend. It wasn’t until we arrived here—at the opening of the museum’s new wing—that he’d even gotten around to asking what I did for a living.

“So what’s the weirdest story you’ve ever covered?” he asked.

“Oh, there are plenty of contenders for that one. Just last week I had this UFO—”

“What about celebrities?” he cut in. “Tabloids cover that, right? Celebrity gossip? What’s the best one of those stories you’ve done?”

“Ummm, none. True News includes some celebrity stories, but I’m strictly the ‘weird tales’ girl, mainly paranormal, although—”

“Paranormal? Like ghosts?” Again, he didn’t wait for me to answer. “Our frat house was supposed to be haunted. Frederick and I—your brother-in-law and I were frat brothers, but I guess your mother told you that. Anyway, one night …”

My poor mother. Reduced to canvassing my sister’s husband’s college buddies for potential mates for her youngest child. She’d long since gone through every eligible bachelor she knew personally.

“I don’t need you to find me dates, Mom,” I said the last time, as I’d said the hundred times before. “I’m not so bad at it myself.”

“Dates, yes. Relationships, no. I swear, Hope, you go out of your way to find men you wouldn’t want to know for more than a weekend. Yes, you’re only twenty-six, hardly an old maid, and I’m not saying you need to settle down, but you could really use some stability in your life, dear. I know you’ve had a rough go of it, struggling to find your way …”

What do you expect? I wanted to say sometimes. You gave me a demon for a dad. Of course, that wasn’t fair. Mom didn’t know what my father was. I’d been born nine months after my parents separated, and grown up assuming—like everyone else—that I was my father’s “parting shot” before he’d run off with his nurse.

At eighteen I had begun to suspect otherwise, when I’d realized that my feelings of being “different” were more than adolescent alienation.

Douglas finished his haunted frat house story, then asked, “So what kind of education does a tabloid writer need? Obviously, you don’t go to journalism school for that.”

“Actually, I did.”

He had the grace to flush. “Oh, uh … but you wouldn’t need to, right? I mean, it’s not real reporting or anything.”

I searched his face for some sign of condescension. None. He was a jerk, but not a malicious one. Damn. Another excuse lost. I had a half-dozen girlfriends who wouldn’t need a justification for ending this date early. They’d cut and run. So why couldn’t I? I was a half-demon, for God’s sake. I had an excuse for being nasty.

I scanned the room. The gala was being held in the reception hall, which was also—as discreet signs everywhere reminded us—available for weddings, parties, and corporate events. A jazz trio played in the corner, beside a tiny portable parquet dance floor, as if the organizers acknowledged this wasn’t a dancing crowd but felt obligated to provide something. The main event here was schmoozing—fostering contacts while basking in the feel-good glow of supporting the arts. Large-scale replicas of statues and urns dotted the room, to remind guests where they were and why … although the pieces seemed to be getting more use as coat-racks and leaning posts.

“The buffet table looks amazing,” I said. “Is that poached salmon?”

“Wild, I hope, but you can’t be too careful these days. I had dinner with a client last week, and he’d been to a five-star restaurant in New York the week before, and they’d served farm-fed salmon. Do people just not read the papers? You might as well eat puffer fish, which reminds me of the time I was in Tokyo—”

“Hold that thought,” I said. “I’m going to grab something and scoot back.”

I bolted before he could stop me.

As I crossed the floor to the buffet, I was keenly aware of eyes turning my way. A wonderful feeling for a woman … if those eyes are sweeping over her in admiration and envy, not glued to her dress in “What the hell is she wearing?” bemusement.

It was the dress’s fault. It had screamed to me from across the store, a canary yellow beacon in the rack of blacks and olive greens and navy blues. A ray of sunshine in the night. That’s how I’d pictured myself in it, cutting a swath through the darkness in my slinky bright yellow dress. Ray of sunshine? No. I looked like a banana in heels.

Sadly, this wasn’t my first fashion disaster. The truly sad part was that I had no excuse for my lack of dress sense. My mother routinely showed up in the local society pages as a shining example of the well-bred and well-dressed. My sister had paid her way through law school by modeling. Even my brothers had both made the annual “best-dressed bachelor” lists before their marriages disqualified them. It didn’t matter. My entire family could have accompanied me to that store and unanimously told me—yet again—that yellow was the worst possible color for anyone with dark hair and a dark complexion, and I’d still have walked out with that dress, blinded by my sun-bright delusions.

At least I hadn’t spilled anything on it. I paused mid-stride and looked down at myself. Nope, nothing spilled yet. As long as I stuck to white wine and sauce-free food, I’d be fine.

I picked up a plate and surveyed the table. There was a roast duck centerpiece, surrounded by poached salmon, marinated prawns on ice, chocolate-covered strawberries …

I wasn’t hungry, but there’s always room for chocolate-covered strawberries. As I reached for one, my vision clouded.

I tried to force the vision back, concentrate on the present, the buffet table, the smell of perfume circling the room, the soft jazz notes floating past, focus on that, keep myself grounded in the—

Everything went dark. Images, smells, and sounds flickered past, hard and fast, like physical blows. A forest—the shriek of an owl—the loamy smell of wet earth—the thunder of running paws—a flash of black fur—a snarl—teeth flashing—the sharp taste of—

I ricocheted from my vision so fast I had to grab the edge of the table to steady myself. I swallowed and tasted blood, as if I’d bitten my tongue, but I felt nothing.

A deep breath. I opened my eyes. There, in the center of the table, wasn’t a roast duck but a newly dead one, ripped apart, bloodied feathers scattered over the ice and prawns and poached salmon, steaming entrails spilling out on the white tablecloth.

I wheeled, smacked into a man behind me, and knocked the plate from his hands. I dove to grab it, but my charm bracelet snagged on his sleeve and I nearly yanked him down with me. The plate hit the floor, shards of glass flying in every direction.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said.

A soft chuckle. “Quite all right. I’m better off without the added cholesterol. My physician will thank you.”

I fumbled to extricate his sleeve from my bracelet. He reached down, hand brushing mine, and, with a deft twist, set us free.

As he did, I got my first glimpse of him, and inwardly groaned. If I had to make a fool of myself, of course it would be in front of someone like this, who looked as if he’d never made a fool of himself in his life. Tall, dark, and handsome, he was elegance personified, marred only by a hawkish cast to his face. Every response to my stammered apologies was witty and charming. Every move as we disentangled was fluid and graceful. The kind of guy you expected to speak with a crisp British accent and order his martinis shaken, not stirred.

As a bevy of serving staff rushed in to clean up, I apologized one last time, and he smiled, his last reassurance as sincere as his first, but his gaze had grown distant, as if he’d mentally already moved on and in five minutes would forget me altogether—which, under the circumstances, I didn’t mind at all.

As I walked back to Douglas, the working Big Ben replica clock in the middle of the room chimed the hour. Ten o’clock? Already? No, that made sense—with Douglas being so late for dinner, we hadn’t arrived at the gala until past nine.

I hurried over to him. “There’s a—”

He cut me short with a discreet nod toward my bodice.

“You have a spot,” he whispered.

I looked down to see a dime-size blob of marinara sauce on my left breast. Fallout from the buffet table debacle. Naturally. If food flew, I’d catch some, and in the worst possible place.

I thanked him, and tried to blot it with my napkin. It grew from a dime to a quarter. I stretched my purse strap to cover it.

“I was going to say there’s a special behind-the-scenes tour of the new exhibit starting now,” I said. “I’d love to see it, and it would be a great way to meet people, mingle …” And save me from another two hours of your corporate war stories.

“Speaking of mingling, did you see who’s here?” He directed my attention to a group of middle-aged couples wedged between a bronze urn and a terra-cotta bull. “Robert Baird,” he whispered reverently.

He paused, as if waiting for me to drop and touch my forehead to the floor.

“CEO of Baird Enterprises?” he said.

“Oh, well, if you know him, I guess we could—”

“I don’t, but his wife and your mother both serve on the Ryerson Foundation board, so …”

“You thought I could introduce you.”

“You would? Thanks, Hope. You’re such a gem.”

“Sure, right after the tour—”

Too late. He was already heading for the Bairds. I sighed, adjusted my purse strap, and followed.

TWO

Thirty minutes later, the tour was over, the attendees were returning gushing over the new exhibit … and I was still stuck with Douglas and the Bairds.

I began to wonder whether he’d notice if I left. Maybe I could slip away, conduct a little self-guided tour …

Douglas put his arm around my waist and leaned into me, as if to take some of the weight off his feet. I bit back a growl of frustration, fixed on my best “Gosh, this is all so interesting” smile, and did what I’m sure every other significant other in the group had done an hour ago … turned off and tuned out.

While every other partner’s mind slid to mundanities—like juggling the children’s schedules, planning next weekend’s dinner party, contemplating a report for work—mine went straight to the dark realm of human suffering. I can’t help it. The moment I let my mind wander, it turns into a dedicated chaos receiver, picking up every nearby trouble frequency.

Unlike the buffet table vision, these weren’t mental blackouts. They were like semi-dozing, that state right before sleep where you’re still conscious but the dreamworld starts to encroach on reality. The first thing I saw was a woman sitting at Mrs. Baird’s feet, her legs pulled up under her party dress, her makeup running, shoulders heaving with silent sobs.

As the apparition vanished, I felt my gaze slide to the left, and I knew somewhere down a hall I’d find a woman, huddled and sobbing in some quiet place. Maybe someone had called with bad news, or maybe she’d seen her husband’s hand snake onto another woman’s thigh. I never knew the causes, only the outcomes.

“Tonight,” a man’s voice hissed at my ear. “He had to do it tonight, while the offices are empty.”

I didn’t bother looking beside me, instead let my subconscious draw my attention across the room to two men near the door. One was shaking his head, the other’s face was taut as he talked quickly.

The voices faded, and others took their place—angry words, accusations, whimpers, sobs, a Babel of voices joined in the common tongue of chaos. Images flashed, superimposed on reality, burning themselves onto my retinas, most meaningless out of context. It didn’t matter. I knew the context: chaos, like the voices. An unending parade of negative chaos in every conceivable form, from grief to rage to sorrow to jealousy to hate. I saw, heard, felt, experienced it all.

And the worst of it? Even as my brain rebelled, throwing up every proper reaction—horror, sympathy, and anger—my soul drank it in like the finest champagne, reveling in the sweet taste, the bubbles popping against my tongue, the delicious caress of giddy light-headedness.

Every half-demon has a power, inherited from his or her father. Some can create fire, some can change the weather, some can even move objects with their minds. This was mine. My “gift.”

For six years, I’d struggled against my growing power, this innate radar for chaos, this thirst for it. I’d fought like the most self-aware junkie, knowing my addiction would destroy me but unable to stop chasing it. Years of dark moods, dark days, and darker thoughts. Then … salvation.

Through my growing network of half-demon contacts, someone had found me, someone who could help. I wouldn’t say I was surprised. For community support, you can’t beat the supernatural world. Most races formed core groups centuries ago, like the witch covens, werewolf packs, sorcerer Cabals … When you live in a world that doesn’t know you exist—and it seems best to keep it that way—community is a must, for everything from training to medical care.

Half-demons are often considered the least communal of the races, but I’d argue the opposite. We may not have a core group or police our own, but the half-demon regional communities encompass everyone in that region, which is more than I can say for the others. Because we lack the family backup of the hereditary races, half-demons are always on the lookout for others, and once you’re found, a world of support opens up to you.

So I was contacted. A meeting was scheduled for lunch, on a sidewalk café, someplace public and private at the same time, which had reassured me from the start. I’d arrived to find only one person at the table, a slight, fair-haired man in his thirties, dressed business casual, like everyone else in the restaurant. Handsome, in a delicate way, well mannered, with an easy smile and warm brown eyes, Tristan Robard had put me at ease from that first handshake. We’d ordered a pitcher of sangria, chatted about ongoing construction in the city core, and spent the first half of the meal getting a sense of one another. Then he’d looked up from his entrée, met my gaze, and said, “Have you ever heard of the interracial council?”

When I hesitated, he laughed. “They really need a better name, don’t they? The Sumerian Council, the Grand Guild, or something like that. That’s the problem with trying to be understated … if you don’t give yourself a fancy name, no one remembers who the heck you are. I always tell them that’s part of the problem. Get a good name, a clever slogan, a nice logo, and people would remember you and, more importantly, remember you when they need you.”

“That’s the delegates’ council, isn’t it? The heads of the various supernatural races—the American ones, at least.”

“Exactly. Now, do you know what the council does?”

“Only the vaguest idea, I’m afraid.” I smiled. “Like you said, they need a better marketing plan. They’re supposed to help supernaturals, right? General policing, resolving conflicts between groups …”

“‘Protect and serve,’ that’s the council’s motto … or it would be, if they had one. The problem is that, for about twenty years, they’ve been slipping so far under the radar that no one knows they’re there, so no one reports problems. They’re trying to fix that now, and step one is broadening their reach. Recruiting, so to speak.”

“New delegates, you mean?”

He laughed. “No, those positions are filled, and are far loftier than you or I can aspire to … for now, at least. What they’re doing now is creating a network of ‘eyes on the ground,’ so to speak, supernaturals willing to join the payroll, help them look for trouble, and, eventually, help them solve it.”

My hand clenched around my napkin as I struggled to keep my face neutral. Help look for trouble? Was there anyone out there better suited for such a task? If I could help—use my power for good—Oh, God, please …

I don’t think I breathed for that next minute, waiting for him to go on.

“In particular, they want people in careers suited to troubleshooting, like law enforcement officers, social workers, or”—he met my gaze and smiled—“journalists. And the ideal candidate would be someone not only with a suitable job but from a race that could prove equally useful—werewolves or vampires for their tracking skills, or, maybe … a half-demon with a nose for trouble.”

“You mean …” I couldn’t say the rest. Couldn’t. The words jammed in my throat.

“On behalf of the council, Hope, I’d like to offer you a job.”

And so it began. With Tristan as my contact, I’d been working for the council. It’d been eighteen months now. I hadn’t been fortunate enough to meet the delegates to thank them personally, but in the meantime, I thanked them with every job I did, putting my all into every task they assigned me.

Tristan had gotten me the job at True News. Not exactly a prestigious position for an up-and-coming journalist, but it would help, and that was more important than my professional ego. Tabloids do stumble on the truth now and then, and it’s usually trouble: a careless vampire, an angry half-demon, a power-hungry sorcerer. I used my job at the paper to sniff out impending supernatural trouble for the council.

I was good at my job. Damn good. So, after the first year, the council had expanded my duties to cover bounty hunting. Supernaturals who cause trouble often flee. If they came near my part of the country, the council set my bloodhound nose on their trail, and I sniffed out the guilty party and then called in the cavalry.

For this, the council paid me—and paid me well—but the best part wasn’t the money; it was the guilt-free excuse to quench my thirst for chaos. To help the council, I needed to hone my powers, and to do that, I had to practice. I had a long way to go—I still picked up random visions like that silly one with the duck, which had probably seen its mother ripped apart by a dog or some such nonsense. But I was improving, and while I was, I had every excuse to indulge in the chaos around me.

So when my mind wandered during conversation with the Bairds, that’s exactly what I did—practiced. I concentrated on picking out specific audio threads and visual images, pulling them to the forefront and holding them there when they threatened to fade behind stronger signals.

The one I was working on was a very mundane marital spat, a couple trading hissed volleys of “you never listen to me” and “why do you always do this?” The kind of spats every relationship falls into in times of stress … or so my siblings and friends told me. Relationships, as my mother pointed out, were not my forte. There was too much in my life I couldn’t share, so I concentrated on friends, family, work, my job with the council, and tried to forget what I was missing. When I hear stuff like this meaningless bickering—ruining what should have been a romantic night together—I’m not convinced that I’m missing anything.

The very banality of the fight made it a perfect practice target. Even at a social function like this, there were a half-dozen stronger sources of chaos happening simultaneously, and my mind kept trying to lead me astray, like a puppy straining on the leash in a new park, saying “Hey, what’s that smell?”, “Wait, did you hear that—”, “Whoa, look over there!”

Keeping my focus on the bickering couple was a struggle and—

“You aren’t supposed to be back here, sir,” said a gruff voice at my ear. “This area is off-limits to guests.”

I mentally waved the voice aside like a buzzing mosquito.

Back to the couple. The husband was bitching about the wife ordering fish for dinner when she knew he hated the smell of it.

“Which is why I have it when we’re out,” she snapped. “So I don’t stink up the kitchen cooking it and—”

That gruff voice at my ear interrupted her again, shrill now with alarm. “What the—?”

My head shot up, pulse accelerating, body tense with anticipation, as if my mental hound had just caught the scent of fresh T-bone steak.

“No! Please—!”

The plea slid into a wordless scream. One syllable, one split second, then the scream was cut short, and I was left hanging there, suspended, straining for more—

I turned to pinpoint the source of the chaos. Another jolt, this one too dark, too strong even for me, like that last gulp of champagne when you know you’ve already had too much and your stomach lurches in rebellion, the sweetness turning acid-sour.

“Hope?” Douglas’s hand slipped from my waist, and he leaned toward my ear to whisper, “Are you okay?”

“Bathroom,” I managed. “The champagne.”

“Here, let me take you.”

I brushed him off with a smile. Then I made my way across the room, my legs shaking, hoping I wasn’t staggering. By the time I reached the hall, the shock of that mental jolt had passed, replaced by an oddly calm curiosity.

A few more steps, and I wasn’t even sure whether what I’d felt had just happened. I often picked up strong residual vibes from events long past, like that dead buffet duck. I’m working on learning to distinguish residuals from current sources, but I’m always second-guessing myself.

When I arrived at the hall T-junction, I could detect traces of the chaos that had bitch-slapped me. That came from the right. But I caught another, fresher source of trouble to the left.

My attention naturally swung left. The chaos-puppy again, far more interested in that squirrel gamboling in plain sight than an old rabbit trail. I headed that way.

THREE

I looked around, then slipped past the sign reminding guests that this area wasn’t part of the gala. In other words: keep out, worded nicely to avoid insulting current and future museum benefactors.

As the sounds of the party faded behind me, the clicking of my heels echoed louder. I backed into a recessed doorway and removed them. Then, with the shoe straps threaded through my purse, I leaned from the doorway, looked both ways, crept out, and padded down the hall.

I’d nearly made it to the end when a flashlight beam bounced off the walls. I backpedaled, heart tripping. A security guard’s shoes clomped through the next room then receded, and I started out again.

At the end of the hall, I peeked into the next room. The chaos signal was stronger now, a siren’s call coming from yet another darkened hallway. As I stepped into the room, the red light of a surveillance camera blinked.

I scooted back, then crouched and shuffled forward, too low for the camera to pick up. I craned my head to look for that light. There it was—a video camera lens fixed on the display cases in the middle of the room.

Squinting, I charted a safe path around the perimeter. Still crouched, face turned from the camera, I edged forward. It wasn’t easy, moving in the near darkness through an unfamiliar room dotted with obstacles—priceless obstacles—but I reveled in every terrified heart-thump. Part of me wanted to rise above that, to pooh-pooh skulking about dark corridors as an inconvenient and even silly part of my job. I blame growing up in a world that prized detachment and emotional control. But that only made the thrill more precious, the glittering allure of the forbidden … or at least the unseemly.

I made it to the next hall. This time I had the foresight to look before I strolled in. I needed more practice at this sort of thing.

As I peered around the corner, I saw, not a room, but another corridor, this one wide and inviting, with a carpeted floor and benches. Paintings and prints decorated the left wall. The right needed no adornment—it was a sloping sheet of glass overlooking the special exhibit gallery below. I had seen Tutankhamen in that gallery, relics from the Titanic, peat bog mummies, and, most recently, feathered dinosaurs. Now, if I remembered correctly, it displayed a traveling collection of jewelry.

This second-story viewing hall stretched along two sides of the gallery below. Through the glass, I saw the pale circle of a face. I eased back, but the face stayed where it was, bobbing, as if the owner was cleaning the glass. A janitor? Was my trouble alert on the fritz again? I really needed more practice.

A shard of light reflected off the glass on the other side. Again I moved back, expecting the guard with his bouncing flashlight. But by then my eyes had adjusted enough for me to see the light reflecting off a sheet of glass … in a pair of dark-gloved hands.

I bit back a laugh. So that’s what I’d picked up—not a janitor or some bored partygoer wandering around off-limits areas, but a robbery-in-progress. My gaze still fixed on the would-be thief, I reached into my purse.

My fingers brushed two objects that Tristan insisted I carry at all times: a gun and a pair of handcuffs. Even tonight, when I was off duty, he’d been so concerned for my safety that he’d had me meet someone from the council security detail so I could pass my gun and cuffs to him and pick them up again inside the gala, circumventing the security at the door. Overkill, but it was sweet of him to care.

I’d rolled my eyes as I’d gone through Tristan’s cloak-and-dagger routine, but now I was actually in a position where guns and cuffs could come in handy. That would add some excitement to my night. But no. Apprehending a common thief wasn’t my job, no matter how tempting. Instead, I pulled out my cell phone to call the police.

Across the way, the thief was climbing over the edge, through the hole he’d cut in the glass. I paused, phone in hand. How would he get down? Rappel? Lower himself like Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible? I’d just see how he did this and then call—

The man jumped.

I gasped. It was a thirty-foot drop. Surely he’d break—

The man landed on his feet as easily as if he’d hopped off a two-foot ledge.

I put my phone away. No human could make such a leap, not like that. I knew now why I’d picked up the trouble signal so clearly from so far. A supernatural thief. This was my job after all.

The figure moved across the well-lit gallery. His back was to me as he started working on the security panel.

Knowing his supernatural race would help. The first time I’d followed a paranormal lead from True News without council backup, I’d ended up with second-degree burns from a very pissed-off fire half-demon.

I looked down at the man. No clues there. There never were. Half-demons, witches, sorcerers, werewolves, vampires … you couldn’t tell by looking. Or, with the vampires and werewolves, I’d heard you couldn’t tell. I’ve never met one of either race, both being rare and cliquish.

He could be a vampire. Vampires had more than their share of thieves—natural stealth combined with invulnerability made it a good career choice. A vampire could probably have made that jump.

As he continued working on the security panel, I ran through a few other possibilities. My mental databanks overflowed with supernatural data, most for types I had never—and likely would never—meet.

Sometimes, poring over my black market reference books, I felt like an overeager army recruit, digesting ballistics tables for weapons I’d never fire, tactical manuals for situations I’d never encounter. Devouring everything in an effort to “be all that I could be.” The council had taken a chance on me and turned my life around. I owed them my best.

Security system disabled, the man walked to the display and, with a few adroit moves, scooped up three pieces as easily as if he’d been swiping loose candy from a store shelf. As he did, something about him looked familiar, the way his hands moved, the way he held himself, the cut of his tuxedo. When he did turn, face glowing in the display lights, I cursed under my breath. It was the man I’d crashed into at the buffet table.

The oath was for me—I’d been inches from a supernatural and hadn’t noticed. I could blame that silly “dead duck” vision and the ensuing confusion, but I couldn’t rest on excuses. I needed to be better than that.

Jewelry stashed in an inside breast pocket, the man crossed the floor. I pulled the gun from my purse and crept forward, crouched to stay under the glass. When he came through that open window again, I’d—

Wait—how was he going to climb out of it? He hadn’t left a rope … meaning he didn’t plan to exit the way he’d come in. Shit!

I popped my head over the window edge to see him at the door. It was barred on the inside, vertical metal bars, extra security hidden from passersby who would see only a closed door.

The man reached one gloved hand through the bars and pushed the handle. The door opened a crack, any electronic security having been overridden from the panel he’d disabled. So he could open the door. Great, but that still left those metal bars—

He took hold of the nearest bar, flexed his hand, and pulled. As I stared, he pried open a space big enough to slip through and—

Wake up, girl! He’s going to get away.

I snapped my hanging jaw shut and broke into a hunched-over jog as I mentally ran through the layout of the museum. At the first junction there’d be back stairs to the main level. Those stairs led to an emergency exit, but the stairwell itself could be used without tripping a fire alarm.

But did it trigger anything else? Maybe a signal in the security station? I couldn’t worry about that. When I hit the doorway, I quickly checked for security cameras and then pushed open the door, tore down the steps.

FOUR

Pulse racing, I forced myself to slow enough to peek out the main-level door first. It opened into a dark hallway. No security cameras in sight. I put on my shoes, stuffed my charm bracelet into my purse, and stepped out.

I looked around the next corner to see the thief step into the well-lit main hall leading to the main doors. Cheeky bastard. He wasn’t even hurrying.

I did hurry. I raced down the hall and called, “Excuse me!”

He didn’t slow … or speed up, just smiled and tipped his head to a trio of women at the coat check. I picked up my pace. He made it to the door and paused to hold it open for an exiting elderly couple.

I covered the last few paces at a jog. He saw me then—the yellow dress did it, I’m sure. A friendly smile and nod, and he continued on.

“My bracelet,” I said, breathing hard, as if I’d chased him from the party. “Charm—my charm bracelet—it snagged—”

“Slow down.” His fingers touched my arm, and he frowned in polite concern. “Here, let’s step out of the way.”

His finger still resting on my arm, he steered me into a side hall, a scant yard or so in, far enough from the door to speak privately but not so far from others as to alarm me. Damned smooth … and damned calm for a guy with a pocketful of stolen jewelry.

“My bracelet snagged on your jacket,” I said. “In the buffet line—”

“Yes, of course. It isn’t broken, is it?” His frown grew.

“It’s gone. I noticed it right away, and I’ve been trying to find you ever since. It must have still been caught on your jacket or—”

“Or, more likely, fell onto the floor. I’m sorry, but if it did catch on me”—he lifted his arms and displayed his sleeves—“it’s long since fallen off. It must be on the floor somewhere.”

“It isn’t. I checked everywhere.”

Frustration darted behind his eyes. “Then I would suggest, as reprehensible as the thought is, that someone picked it up with no intention of returning it.”

Amazing, he could say that with a straight face. Then again, I suspected he could say pretty much anything with a straight face.

“You mean someone stole it?” I said.

“Possibly, although, considering the guest list, I realize that’s hard to believe.”

“Oh, I believe it,” I said, letting my voice harden. “I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but your conclusion just proved me wrong. It didn’t fall into your pocket, did it?”

He chased away his surprise with a laugh. “I believe someone has had one glass of champagne too many. What on earth would I do with a … cheap bauble like that?”

He faltered on “cheap bauble.” The man could spin lies with a face sincere enough to fool angels, but lying about his specialty gave him pause. Even in that brief moment of untangling my bracelet, he recognized it for what it was—a valuable heirloom, each charm custom-made. I was surprised he hadn’t tried to nick it in the confusion of our collision.

He continued, “And, if I recall correctly, you bumped into me.”

“I tripped over you … and I’m pretty sure that wasn’t an accident.”

“You think I tripped—?”

A security guard glanced down the hall.

He lowered his voice. “I assure you, I did not steal your bracelet, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t accuse me quite so publicly—”

“You think this is public?” I strode past him toward the main hall. “Let’s make this public. We’ll catch up with that guard, you let him search you, and if I’m wrong—”

He grabbed my arm, his grip tight, then loosening as I turned toward him.

He managed a smile. “I would rather not end my evening by being frisked. Why don’t I help you search for it, and if we don’t find it, I’ll willingly submit to the search.”

I pretended to think it over and then nodded.

“Last time I saw it was when you freed it from your jacket,” I said. “Then I went to the cloakroom, to get my scarf to cover this”—I pointed to the marinara spot—“and I noticed the bracelet was gone. Maybe—” I paused. “When I was looking for the cloakroom, I walked into the wrong room—it was dark, and I brushed against something.”

“Perfect. Let’s start there, then.”

The room I had in mind was a janitorial closet I’d discovered in fourth grade, when my best friend and I had hid after we’d been caught ducking out of the pottery exhibit and sneaking into arms-and-armor. My fault. I’d loved that gallery, even more than mummies and dinosaurs. Even at eight, I could stand in front of those ancient weapons, close my eyes, and hear the clash of metal on metal, smell the blood-streaked sweat, see the rearing horses, feel the hate, the fear, the panic … and feel my own soul rise to drink it in.

At the time, perhaps thankfully, I’d seen nothing wrong with my “fixations,” nor had anyone around me—at my mother’s insistence—chalking it up to a child’s bloodthirsty imagination.

As for my second visit to the janitorial closet, that one had no such demonic backstory, only the raging hormones of youth when, on a high school field trip, a cute boy and a dark closet held infinitely more attraction than even the weaponry exhibits.

If the closet door was locked, I had a backup plan, but I really hoped—

“Here,” I said.

He waved at the door. “This one?”

I nodded, and he reached for the handle. I slid my hand into my purse, crossed my fingers, and …

The door opened.

“Seems to be a janitor’s closet,” he said. “How far in did you—?”

I pressed the gun barrel against the small of his back. He stiffened, as if recognizing the sensation. At this point, he could call for help, even just cry out, but in my experience, no supernatural likes calling attention to himself. Either that or our powers make us cocky where others would panic. Whatever the reason, he did as I expected—only sighed, then walked into the closet. I flipped on the light and closed the door behind us.

Once the door closed, the man turned to me and smiled. “Nicely done. An excellent trap, and I admit myself caught. My cufflinks are gold, and you’re welcome to them, but if you’d prefer cash, there’s a few hundred in my wallet. No banking or credit cards, I’m afraid.”

“I believe you have something more valuable. Check your inside breast pocket. The left side.”

Surprise darted through his blue eyes, but he masked it with a laugh. “Well done again. And again, I surrender and offer my forfeit. Your choice of the bounty.”

He started to reach into his pocket.

“Uh-uh. Hands out,” I said. “I don’t want any of your ‘bounty,’ but I think the museum does.”

“Ah, private security, I presume. I believe you might find my offer more lucrative than the pat on the back the museum will give you.”

“Nice try. I’m not—”

“Interested in a bribe? I’m impressed, and I’m sure your superiors will be as well. You see, they hired me to test their security system. They didn’t inform your team, naturally, to test your efficiency and, if possible, your integrity. You’ve exceeded their expectations, and I will personally recommend you for a bonus.”

“Oh, stuff it. I’m not museum security.”

He only gave a small smile, still unfazed. “So this is a citizen’s arrest? Admirable, but police won’t appreciate being called for an authorized test of museum security, so I’d suggest you reconsider. And I do hope you have a permit for carrying that gun.”

“I’m not calling the police. As I’m sure you already know, our sort have special ways of handling our special problems, problems better dealt with internally.”

Normally this was enough, but he only arched his brows, feigning confusion. “Our sort?”

“The sort who can jump thirty feet and bend metal bars with their bare hands.”

“Ah, that. I can explain—”

“I’m sure you can. Save it for the council.”

“Council?”

The jingle of the handcuffs swallowed his last words.

“You carry handcuffs in your purse?” He chuckled. “Perhaps, when this misunderstanding is cleared up, we can get to know each other better.”

I drowned him out by snapping open the cuffs. He only sighed and held his hands in front of him, as helpful as could be. That, too, is typical. I’d only apprehended four supernaturals so far, but three of them had done exactly this: surrendered and let themselves be taken into custody. The council had a reputation for fairness, and even criminals trusted them. As for the fourth arrest, the witch … I pushed that thought back. That one had been a lesson to me—not every supernatural would come along easily.

“You said council,” he said as I fastened the cuffs. “That wouldn’t be the interracial council, would it?”

“Had some experience with them, have you? Surprise, surprise.”

“And you’re a … delegate?”

“I’m a bit young, don’t you think?” I said as I tested the cuffs.

“No, not really,” he murmured. “So you’re a …”

“Contract agent.”

His brows shot up. “I hope you don’t really expect me to believe that.” He continued, “I’m afraid whoever you’re working for has underestimated my knowledge of the interracial council. They don’t employ contract workers.”

I lifted my scarf.

He looked at it. “I’m already cuffed, and I can assure you, I don’t need to be bound in any other way.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

I jammed it into his mouth. His eyes widened. He looked at me, eyes narrowing, making a noise almost like a snarl.

“Wait here,” I said. “I’m going to make a call.”

FIVE

One last check to make sure my quarry was secure, and I slipped into the hall. I didn’t dare go far, not when I wasn’t sure of his powers.

He wasn’t a vampire. The Samson routine with the metal bars disproved that theory. Contrary to some legends, vampires don’t have superhuman strength. My guess was that he belonged to the most complex of races—my own. I couldn’t recall a half-demon type with his particular skill set, but we were a varied lot, with plenty of rare and poorly documented types, like my own.

One thing I did know. This meeting had been no accident, and I kicked myself for not seeing a test the moment Tristan offered me tickets to the gala. Granted, he did that kind of thing often—the perks that came with this job were phenomenal, and I sometimes felt guilty accepting them, even telling Tristan and, through him, the council that I didn’t need any extras to boost my job satisfaction. But he assured me they were all freebies, like these gala tickets, a gift from a grateful supernatural that would go to waste if I didn’t use them. Still, this was the second time Tristan had sent me someplace and I’d “stumbled” onto a supernatural crime in progress.

They were testing me. The council wanted to see how well my chaos nose worked, and I guess I couldn’t fault them for that, but when I called Tristan, I couldn’t help snapping.

“Okay, okay,” he said, laughing. “No more tests. Can you blame us, Hope? An Expisco half-demon? We’re like kids with a new toy, dying to see what it can do. And you outdid yourself, as always. Karl Marsten, caught by a half-demon rookie agent.”

“So the council’s been after this guy for a while?”

“They have, which is why I should stop my backslapping and remind you that you really shouldn’t take down targets on your own. That’s why we provide backup. You’re too valuable.”

“It wasn’t much of a risk. He did as he was told. Superhuman strength or not, he didn’t even try to fight.” I paused. “Those handcuffs will hold him, won’t they? You said they’re specially made to hold anything supernatural.”

A moment’s hesitation. “You cuffed him?”

“So they won’t hold?”

“He can’t break the cuffs, Hope. That’s not the problem. I thought you knew. You usually know what kind of supernatural you’re dealing with.”

“This time, I didn’t get a vision—”

Oh, yes, I had. Standing in line at the buffet, with him behind me, a vision of forest and fur and fangs and blood.

“He’s a werewolf,” I said.

“Yes, an extremely dangerous one. You need to subdue him now.”

“If he’s dangerous, don’t you want me to wait—”

“No time. As charming as Marsten seems, he’s a werewolf—the most brutal and unpredictable kind of supernatural—and now he’s cornered, which makes him ten times as dangerous. If he knows it’s the council who captured him, he’ll do anything to get away—kill anyone in his path.”

I swallowed. “Okay, so how do I subdue a werewolf?”

“Knock him unconscious. Shoot him if you have to. You don’t need silver bullets.”

“I know.”

“Don’t kill him, just—”

“Disable him. Got it.”

I was already hanging up as Tristan promised me a backup team was on the way.

I made it as far as the broom closet door, one hand on the knob, the other on my gun, still hidden in my purse. I turned the handle and—

“You there!”

I dropped the gun into my purse and wheeled as a white-haired security guard strode toward me.

“What are you doing in that room?” he said.

I let go of the knob and stepped away. Inside, a broom clattered to the floor. The guard’s eyes narrowed.

“Let me guess,” I said. “This isn’t the coatroom.”

Something clanged against a metal bucket. Then a clacking, like nails against linoleum. Marsten had changed into a wolf. Of course he’d changed into a wolf. What else would a cornered werewolf do?

The guard reached for the handle. I envisioned him pulling open the door, and a wolf leaping at his throat.

I grabbed the knob and held it. “It’s jammed, see?” I made a show of jangling it. “I heard something inside. That’s why I was trying to open it. But it’s jammed.”

“Probably locked. The janitor has the keys.”

“Good,” I said. “Why don’t you go find him. I’ll wait here.”

The guard started to leave. Then he paused. “First, let me try the door. It might just be sticking.”

I backed into the door so fast my head cracked against it. The guard reached to steady me.

“Heels,” I mumbled. “I’m always tripping in them.”

I stepped forward, and let my knee give way. The guard grabbed my arm as I grimaced.

“My ankle. Damn. I think I twisted it.”

“Just sit down, miss. I’ll find a doctor. Let me try the door.”

Now what? Short of falling to my knees and howling in agony, I was out of stalling tactics. He reached for the handle. Okay, one pratfall coming up—

The knob turned on its own. The door opened. Karl Marsten stepped out, fully dressed.

“Well, that was embarrassing,” he said with a self-deprecating half smile. “I could’ve sworn this was the bathroom, and then the door jammed shut behind me. Thank you. I really didn’t want to call for help.”

He shook the security guard’s hand. Then he turned to me and, with a murmured thank-you, a tip of his head, and a smile, he strolled off down the hall. I took a step after him.

“Miss?” the guard said. “Do you want me to call a doctor?”

“Doctor? Oh, right. My ankle. No, my … my date is a doctor. I’ll just—”

I looked up and down the hall. The guard pointed toward the party … in the opposite direction to Marsten’s retreating back. Damn. I managed a weak smile and a thank-you, and fake-hobbled back to the gala.

When I reached the party, Douglas was still with the Bairds. I tried making a beeline for the opposite door, to go after Marsten, but Douglas hailed me.

“Sorry,” I said as I returned to him. “I saw an old friend over there. I’ll just go say hi.”

“Friend?” He perked up. “What company does he work for?”

“She’s a musician. Classical. With the symphony.”

His face fell. “Ah, well, you go on, then.” He nodded toward the Bairds. “I’m fine here.”

Marsten was gone. I switched on my mental tracking radar to find him before he escaped. I wasn’t giving up that easily. Maybe I was being naive, but Marsten hadn’t acted like a cornered wild beast. He’d barely even exuded any chaos signals.

Tristan could be something of a mother hen. Expisco half-demons were rare, and one willing to work on the side of the white hats was rarer still. So I understood when Tristan didn’t want me in on takedowns or kept me sequestered from other agents. I knew my limitations, which were many, and I was careful.

I cleared my mind, and pulled up the images I’d seen at the buffet table: forest, running, fur, fangs. After about a minute of mental scanning, I picked up Marsten’s frequency. It was faint and flat—meaning he wasn’t causing any trouble. Not yet.

I focused on the signal and followed. I reached the T-junction again. Marsten’s trail went left. Heading for the back exit.

I hurried down the next corridor, turned the corner—and reeled back, smacked by a wave of chaos.

The voice came again, just like before, a gruff voice telling someone he shouldn’t be back here. The plea. Then the scream.

I closed my eyes and pivoted, trying to find the exact location—

There, around that next corner. I walked into a wall of darkness and braced myself as visions flashed.

Metal glinted. A blade winked in a flashlight beam. The flashlight clattered to the floor. A plea. No! Please—! The blade sheered down. Hands flew up. Blood sprayed.

I froze the vision there as I panted, my heart racing.

I fumbled in my purse, took out my key-chain penlight, and waved the weak beam over the walls. There. Blood droplets, invisible in the near darkness.

SIX

Were the blood drops still wet? I almost reached up to one before snatching my hand back. Look, don’t touch. Standing on my tiptoes, I moved the light closer to the specks. They glistened. Still wet, but drying. Recent.

I swung the beam to the floor and found faint smears of blood.

The trail stopped at a door. Tissue over my hand, I turned the knob. The door opened into an office. I shone my flashlight around. Nothing.

As the door closed behind me, I grabbed it and checked to make sure it wouldn’t lock me inside. Reassured, I eased the door shut and moved toward the center of the room.

As I walked, I picked up a twinge of trouble. This had to be the right place, but I couldn’t see anything out of …

A booted toe protruded from behind the desk. I hurried to it. The desk faced the wall, with a wide gap for computer cord access behind it, and that’s where the killer had stuffed the body. The desk was wedged between the adjoining wall and a huge metal filing cabinet, so I had to crawl onto the desk to peer behind it.

I shone the flashlight beam into the gap.

A man lay faceup in the gap. His eyes stared up in a final flash of “I don’t believe this is happening” horror. His security uniform shirt was a mess of gaping holes, the edges torn. Shredded. The flesh beneath the holes looked … mangled. Chewed.

A hand clamped over my mouth.

I kicked backward. My foot connected, but a second arm clinched around my neck and yanked me off the desk. My attacker spun me around, his hand slapping over my mouth again, and I found myself looking into blue eyes so cold and hard that my heart skipped.

“Did you think I wouldn’t smell the body when I walked by?” Marsten’s voice was as cold and hard as his eyes, all traces of smooth charm gone. “You would have been wiser to let me leave through the front door.”

I pulled back my fist and plowed it toward his gut. He caught my hand easily and squeezed. Tears of pain sprang to my eyes. He brought his face down to mine.

“I’m going to let go,” he said, his voice calm. “If you scream, I will crush your fingers. Do you understand?”

I blinked back tears and nodded. He took one hand from my mouth and relaxed the other one just enough to stop the throbbing pain.

“I will only ask you this once,” he said. “Who do you work for?”

“I told you. The—”

“Interracial council? Then tell me, which delegate hired you?”

“I was approached by a representative—”

“Which delegate?”

“He’s not a delegate. He works for the council.”

He exhaled, as if in frustration. “All right, then. Which delegates have you met?”

“None. I only work through my contact.”

He cut me off with a humorless laugh. “Oh, you’re well trained, aren’t you? I’m sure this story has worked for you in the past, but it falls a little flat when dealing with someone who actually knows the interracial council, knows most of the delegates, and knows—beyond any doubt—that they do not employ ‘agents’—”

Voices sounded in the hall. Marsten half turned, his attention diverted just long enough for me to ram my spiked heel into his shin.

I wrenched my hand free. He grabbed for me. I kicked and lashed out, knee driving into his stomach as my nails clawed his face. He fell back. I ran for the door, threw it open, and raced into the hall.

Running toward those voices might have seemed safer, but I couldn’t—wouldn’t—endanger others. I’d already underestimated Marsten once.

I tore down the halls. Marsten’s soles squeaked behind me, a reminder that he was in flat dress shoes … and I was in heels—giving me no hope of outrunning him.

I grabbed the first doorknob I came to. Locked.

I dove for the one across the hall. As my fingers closed around it, I saw Marsten running toward me. The handle turned. The door opened. I darted through and slammed it.

Even as I turned the lock, I knew I might as well not have bothered. It was a flimsy household privacy lock, easily snapped by even a strong human.

I reached for my purse and … my fingers closed on nothing. It must have fallen when Marsten yanked me off the desk. No purse. No gun.

Marsten’s footsteps slowed to a walk. He didn’t need to hurry. I’d trapped myself in an office with no second door, no windows, no way to escape.

Blockade the door.

The council backup team was on the way. I just had to slow Marsten down.

The footsteps stopped outside the door. The knob turned.

Someone laughed, the sound close by, and the knob stopped turning. A drunken giggle. A voice, growing closer.

I grabbed the sides of the metal filing cabinet. It wouldn’t budge.

“Oh,” someone said near the door. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Unless you’re staff, this hall is off-limits,” Marsten said.

“Oh, right, we were just—”

“Lost,” the woman giggled.

“Then I suggest you turn around. Follow the sounds of the party.”

I looked for something to block the door, but anything big enough was too heavy for me to move. Outside, the man was telling Marsten to mind his own business, but his companion’s voice was already moving away as she called to him to just drop it.

My gaze rose to the ventilation shaft over the desk.

Oh, please. You’ve seen too many movies.

I silenced that inner voice and climbed onto the desk while Marsten threatened to call security. As much as I appreciated the distraction the couple was providing, I prayed they would move on before Marsten gave up trying to handle them discreetly.

As the woman tried to cajole her partner away, I grabbed a coin from a bowl on the desk and quickly unscrewed the ventilation cover.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” the man slurred before muttering a parting obscenity at Marsten.

I yanked on the cover. One side came free. I tugged again, but the other side caught.

The footsteps were receding fast. Any second now, a very pissed-off werewolf was coming through that door. Palms sweating, I fumbled for a better hold. The cover popped off with a ping that I was sure could be heard throughout the museum. I shoved the cover into the shaft, grabbed the edges, heaved, and managed to get inside … right up to my breasts. I stuck there, upper torso in, butt hanging out, legs flailing, arms trembling with the strain of just holding myself up.

Goddamn it! Three evenings a week at the gym, and I couldn’t do better than this?

The door handle turned.

Shit, shit, shit!

“And another thing, asshole,” the man’s voice boomed from the end of the hall.

One last push, boosted by a wave of relief, and I heaved in up to my waist.

“Come on, Rick!” the woman called. “Do you want me to go back to the party alone?”

I wriggled, getting my legs in and then twisting around so I was facing the shaft opening. I tugged the cover from under me, hooked my fingers through the slats, and pulled it into place just as the door lock snapped.

Marsten threw open the door fast—as if expecting me to be standing there armed with a heavy stapler. He paused in the opening, his gaze tripping across the room, nostrils flaring.

Nostrils flaring … Werewolf …

He could smell me.

Damn it! I tried to turn around. My shoulder knocked against the metal. A dull thump, but he heard it. Of course he heard it.

Heightened smell, heightened hearing, heightened strength …

I was out of my league. Way out of it, and I would pay for my hubris—

“Let’s make this easy,” he said. “You don’t want to play hide-and-seek with me. I have all the advantages, and a low tolerance for frustration. So we’ll skip the games. If you feel safer in your hidey-hole”—he scanned the room—“you’re welcome to stay there. You can hear me, and that’s all that matters.”

I shifted my shoulders, testing my space limits again. Too tight. I’d been able to turn around with the vent open, but without that added space, I was stuck. No, not stuck. I could move backward. Awkward, slow, and probably loud, but if it came to that, I would.

“Whoever you are, you’re of no interest to me,” he continued. “That means I have no particular desire to hurt you. So you have a choice. Tell me who you’re working for, and I’ll step aside and let you out this door. Refuse, and I’ll use you for leverage. That’s not a position you want to be in.”

I stayed still and quiet.

“I don’t have all night,” he said. “Nor do you. When I hear your associates approach—which I’m sure will be soon—I’ll sniff you out, and the choice will be made. After that, whether you walk out of here depends on how willing your employer is to negotiate.”

I said nothing. As he moved, his nostrils flared, searching. Then his gaze lifted to the ventilation shaft.

A quick leap, and he was on the desk. As he pulled off the cover, I scrambled backward. I got about five feet before my shoulders hit the sides, stopping me. While I struggled to back up, he peered into the shaft and smiled, his teeth glinting in the dark.

“I do believe you’ve backed yourself into a corner.”

I wriggled, but the shaft had narrowed, and the more I moved, the tighter I wedged myself in.

“Are you going to tell me who you work for?” he said.

“I already did.”

“And I already told you that I know better.” His voice was calm, conversational, no trace of the cold fury from earlier. “You’re obviously a bright young woman, so why you insist on sticking to this story—”

“I know who I work for, and nothing you say is going to make me second-guess that—or betray them.”

He lifted his hand to his mouth and rubbed it, his gaze searching mine.

“You didn’t kill that security guard, did you?” he said.

“Kill—?” I gritted my teeth. “We both know who killed him, so don’t try pinning that on me.”

“That spot on your dress. I suppose you’ll tell me it isn’t blood.” I snorted. “It’s marinara sauce from the damn mussels you threw at me in the buffet line.”

“I threw—?”

He rubbed his mouth and growled. Or I thought it was a growl, until I saw his eyes dancing and realized he was laughing.

“All right. Here.” He reached into the shaft. “Come on out of there. I believe we both have a problem, and we’d best set about resolving it before your associates arrive.”

“You really think I’m a fool, don’t you?”

He tilted his head, as if considering it. “Young, yes. Reckless, yes. Naive, probably. But foolish? No. Not foolish. You—”

A sound from the hall. A door opening, then closing. He swiveled, his eyes narrowing as if tracking something I couldn’t hear. His gaze shot to the door, and he mouthed a silent oath.

“Couldn’t lock it, could you?” I said. “That’s the problem with breaking things. They tend to stay broken.”

He shushed me, grabbed the vent cover, and knocked it back into place. Then he peered through the slats and whispered, “If you want to find out whether I’m lying—and I think you do—stay there and be quiet.”

SEVEN

Marsten jumped off the desk and was halfway to the door when it opened. Two men strode in, guns in hand. Part of the council security force. I recognized both of them from other operations.

I crawled forward, ready to push open the vent and … I stopped, palms against the cover. I didn’t need to eavesdrop to know Karl Marsten was full of shit. I heard the web of lies he’d spun when I’d first confronted him with the theft. He’d say anything to get out of this. Yet there was a reason to stay up here, hidden and silent, the perfect position from which to watch Marsten and make sure he didn’t try anything.

A man strolled in then. Mid-thirties, average height, and reedy, with light brown hair and a delicate, almost feminine face. Tristan, my council contact.

“Ah, Karl,” he said. “I didn’t know you were a patron of the arts.”

“Tristan Robard,” Marsten said. “I’d say I should have known, but I’d be lying. After the last time, I thought you’d have the sense to leave me alone. I guess I overestimated you.”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed.

“I should give you credit, though,” Marsten continued. “You have quite a clever setup here. And your young agent? Well done. A beautiful young woman always lays the most irresistible traps, and it seems even I’m not immune.” He paused. “Aren’t you going to ask where she is?”

“I’m not terribly worried.”

Marsten smiled. “Oh, but you should be. The one problem with using beautiful young women as bait? They make equally irresistible hostages.”

“So you have her.”

As Marsten nodded, I opened my mouth to call out and let Tristan know I was safe—

Tristan smiled. “As I said, I’m not terribly worried.”

I blinked but shook it off. Of course Tristan would say that. He was a skilled negotiator. He wouldn’t let Marsten know he had leverage.

“I don’t think your superiors will approve of that attitude,” Marsten said. “Oh, but your superiors have nothing to do with this, do they? This is personal. A little boy lashing out because the big bad wolf embarrassed him.”

Tristan’s jaw set.

“I didn’t embarrass you, Tristan,” Marsten continued. “You did it to yourself. You offered me a job, and I turned it down—respectfully and politely. But that wasn’t good enough, because you’d already promised your bosses I’d do it, and you had the whole job ready to go. If I refused, you’d need to explain that you’d overreached, and there was no way you were doing that, so you came after me. I was happy to let the matter rest. A rejected business proposition is no cause for animosity. But you came after me. That was your mistake.”

Tristan give a tight laugh. “My mistake? You’re the one being held at gunpoint. Delusional to the end.”

“If you say so.”

Marsten stepped forward, as if ready to go with them. Then he stopped.

“I suppose you’ll want me to tell you where I hid that security guard you had killed. A backup plan, I presume?”

Tristan only reached for his cell phone. Marsten’s gaze flicked to the vent shaft, and then back to Tristan.

“So you didn’t trust your girl to do the job. If she failed, you’d still have a mauled security guard, found at the scene of a jewel theft, a little tale you could take to the interracial council.”

Tristan only smiled, gaze still down as he checked messages on the phone. “I think the Pack would be more interested in that story.”

“Ah, of course. The werewolf Pack. A clever plan, and one that might have worked … if I hadn’t been part of the Pack myself for the past two years.”

Tristan looked up.

“Not very good at homework, are you?” Marsten said. “That’s obvious from that preposterous story you told the girl. Working as an agent for the interracial council? I’m sure Aaron, Paige, Adam, and the other delegates will be thrilled to know they have a team of secret agents working on their behalf.”

Marsten caught Tristan’s look. “Your story probably works much better on those who don’t know the delegates personally. I could toss a few more names at you, including the werewolves’ delegates, but I doubt you’d recognize them, and they wouldn’t appreciate me filling that void for you.”

He paused, head tilted, feigning deep thought. “Oh, but I do have another name, one you might find infinitely more interesting. You know who Paige Winterbourne’s husband is, I presume. You can’t possibly be that out of touch.”

Tristan stiffened.

“Ah, you do know. A very nice young man. I did some work for him last year. Quite pleasant.” Marsten frowned. “I hear his father isn’t always so pleasant, though. A decent employer, I’m sure … unless he finds out one of his employees has been building his own little spy network behind his back.”

“I haven’t been doing anything behind Benicio’s back. He knows all about my initiative. And he’s very impressed.”

“Oh? So this is a Cabal-sanctioned hit? Funny, I could’ve sworn it smelled like personal revenge. Well, what do I know. A Cabal killing a Pack werewolf shouldn’t cause too much trouble.”

Tristan waved to the guards. “Get him out of here.”

He turned, and Marsten started to follow.

One of the guards spoke up. “Sir? What about the girl?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about her,” Marsten said. “She’s quite resourceful. I’m sure she’ll get herself free, if she hasn’t already. But the security guard? Now that’s a problem.”

Tristan turned sharply. “Hope’s still alive?”

“Is that her name? Of course she’s alive. You didn’t think I’d—” Marsten shook his head. “I suppose, considering who I’m talking to, I shouldn’t need to ask. Oddly enough, I find the best hostages are the live ones. Yes, Hope is fine and, as I said, will almost certainly free herself, so there’s no need to worry.”

“Where is she?”

“The question is: where’s the dead guard? The girl can take care of herself. That guard, sadly, is beyond assistance.”

“Where is she?”

Marsten paused and rubbed his chin, as if realizing he wasn’t going to talk his way out of handing me over. I’m sure he had some self-interested reason for not wanting to do so, but I was grateful for the effort nonetheless. I didn’t know how I’d face Tristan, knowing the truth.

The truth.

My stomach heaved.

“She’s in a janitor’s closet,” Marsten said. “Restrained with her own handcuffs, which I thought was appropriate. I can take you there, if you’d like.”

“You’ll wait here. I’ll come back for you when I’m finished with her.”

Finished with me?

As Marsten gave Tristan directions to the closet I’d used to hold him earlier, I scrambled for an escape plan. Yes, escape. Marsten’s life was in danger. And I’d put it there.

Tristan left with one guard. When he was gone, the second one backed onto the desk, gun still trained on Marsten.

I eased the vent cover out. Marsten looked away and flicked his fingers, telling me to stay where I was.

As quietly as I could, I moved the cover into the shaft and laid it down under me. Marsten’s gaze met mine and he shook his head.

When I grabbed the edge of the vent, he threw me one last glare. Then he cleared his throat.

“You do work for the Cortez Cabal, I presume,” he said to the guard, his voice loud in the small room, covering me as I eased forward.

“I’ve heard the Cabals frown on employees taking outside jobs,” Marsten continued in that same too-loud voice. “Yes, I know, Tristan is a Cabal associate vice-president, so one could argue it’s not truly moonlighting, but I suspect Mr. Cortez wouldn’t be so quick to see the distinction.”

I braced myself at the edge of the opening.

Marsten continued. “An AVP using Cabal resources for a personal vendetta? I’ll wager Mr. Cortez would richly reward—”

I pushed from the ventilation shaft and hit the guard in the back. An oomph as he fell forward. Marsten snatched the gun. Then he tossed it to me. The move caught me off guard, as I was awkwardly trying to right myself. I scrambled for it, but my hand knocked it flying, and the gun ricocheted onto the desk, tumbling down behind it.

Marsten grabbed the guard around the neck. The man flailed. Marsten swung him off his feet and bashed his head against the filing cabinet. As the guard’s body went slack, Marsten looked over at me, still crouched on the desk, staring.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I didn’t kill him.”

The last licks of chaos rippled through me. I shuddered, eyes rolling in rapture. Marsten’s brows arched. I turned the shudder into a more appropriate shiver of fear.

“Are you sure?” I said. “He looks—”

“He’s fine.” Marsten knelt beside the guard as he pulled my handcuffs from his pocket. “Though I do hate to waste these on him.” Another dig into his pocket and he tossed me my scarf. We secured the guard. Then Marsten waved me to the door as he double-checked my knot. My fingers brushed the knob, but Marsten yanked me back.

“I was going to look first,” I said.

“You don’t need to. I can hear them coming.” He looked around. “You take the vent.” He grabbed my arm and propelled me to the desk. “Go headfirst this time, and you’ll be able to squeeze through.”

“After you,” I said.

“No time. Go.”

“After you.”

He gave me a look, as if contemplating the chances of stuffing me in the shaft himself. Then, with a soft growl, he hopped onto the desk. He grabbed the edge of the shaft and easily swung himself up and in, then paused in the opening, his rear sticking out.

“It’s very narrow,” he said. “I’m not sure I can—”

“Try,” I said, and gave him a shove.

He wriggled through as I climbed up. The door clicked. No time to replace the cover. I pulled my legs in, and followed him.

EIGHT

In the movies, ventilation shafts are the escape route of choice for heroes trapped in industrial buildings. They’re clean and roomy and soundproof, and will take you anywhere you want to go, like a Habitrail system for the beleaguered protagonist on the run. I don’t know where Hollywood buys their ventilation shafts, but they don’t use the same supplier as that museum.

We crept along. The passage widened enough to crawl, but our sound reverberated through the shaft. I could feel skin sloughing off my knees as I scraped over the rivets, and imagined a snail’s trail of blood ribboning behind me. And the dust? I sneezed at least five times, and managed to whack my head against the top with each one.

“Breathe through your mouth,” Marsten whispered, his voice echoing down the dark tunnel.

Sure, that helped the sneezing, but then I was tasting dust. Would it kill the museum to spring for duct cleaning now and then?

I smacked face-first into Marsten’s ass.

“Warn me when you stop,” I muttered. “Please.”

A low chuckle. “At the next branch you can take the lead, so you won’t have that problem. I will … but I suspect I won’t complain about it.”

“You won’t bump into me. Werewolves have enhanced night vision.”

“Mine’s been a little rusty lately.”

I head-butted him in the rear. “Move.”

The first vent we hit, he hit, driving his fist into it and knocking it clattering to the floor. Apparently I wasn’t the only one getting claustrophobic.

Marsten crawled out. I started to, then my dress snagged on a rivet, and I tumbled out headfirst, floor flying up to meet me—

Marsten grabbed me and swung me onto my feet. I regained my balance and took a deep breath of clean air.

“Well, there goes two thousand dollars,” he muttered, looking down at himself.

Both elbows of his jacket were torn, and the front of his shirt was streaked with dirt, as were his face, hands, and pretty much every exposed inch of skin. Cobwebs added gray streaks to his dark hair. His shoes were scuffed, as were his pant knees. While he surveyed the damage, he looked so mournful that I had to stifle a laugh. Well, I tried to stifle it. Kind of.

“Don’t snicker,” he said. “You’re just as bad.”

“The difference? I don’t care.”

As he brushed himself off, I looked around. We were in some kind of laboratory, with microscopes and steel tables and what looked like pots of bones in the midst of de-fleshing. At any other time, curiosity would have compelled me to take a closer look. Tonight, only one thing caught my attention: the exit door.

As I strode to it, Marsten grabbed my arm.

“You can’t go out like that,” he said.

“Oh, please. My life may be in danger. You really think I care how I look? You stay here and pretty up if you like, but I’m bolting for the nearest exit.”

His grip tightened as I tried to pull away. I yanked harder. He squeezed harder.

I glared at him. “That—”

“Hurts. Yes, I know. But you’ll hurt a lot worse if Tristan catches you. He wasn’t heading to that closet to congratulate you on a job well done, Hope. He wants me dead, and to do it safely—without risking his own life on the repercussions—he needs to clip off his loose ends. That includes you and, later, those guards.”

“Kill four people because you embarrassed him?”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“What did—?”

“Whatever I did, it came after he retaliated because I turned down his job offer. But that doesn’t matter. To a man like Tristan Robard, killing four people to avenge his ego is perfectly reasonable.”

He studied my face and then shook his head. “At least give me the benefit of the doubt by not strolling out that door and testing my theory.”

“There are plenty of exits. I know my way around.”

“Good. But wandering the halls looking like this, we’re going to raise alarms.”

“All right. Let’s pretty up, then.”

Marsten declared his tux jacket a write-off. That was fine—it was nearing midnight, and jackets and ties would be coming off anyway as the party wore down. Under it, his shirt only needed a brisk wipe-down. My dress had actually fared quite well, with only a rip under the arm and a smear of blood on the skirt. Take off my nylons, wipe down my dusty shoes and bloody knees with a damp paper towel, and I was fine … below the neck, anyway. There were no mirrors, and my distorted reflection in the stainless steel table wasn’t very helpful.

“Here,” Marsten said, “I’ll get your face if you can clean mine.”

He wet a fresh paper towel in the lab sink. I lifted my face. He raised the cloth to my cheek and then paused to brush cobwebs from my hair. When he finished, he smiled, took a stray strand, and wrapped it around his finger. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it was more than a “stray strand.” It was a huge hunk of hair, which thirty minutes ago had been battened down in an upswept twist.

I groaned. “How bad is it?”

“It’s a bit … tousled. Very sexy.”

I lifted my hand to my hair and swore. At least half of it had come free. Beyond repair without a brush, a mirror, and a half hour of styling time. I yanked out a handful of pins and gave my hair a shake, letting it fall down my back.

“Mmmm … very sexy.”

“Down, boy. We’re fleeing for our lives, remember.” I raked my fingers through my hair. “Any better?”

A wolfish grin. “Much. You look like you just crawled out of bed.”

“Not the look I’m aiming for. Damn it.”

He caught my hands as I tried to smooth out the damage. “It’s fine. Tousled, yes, but it looks intentional.”

He put his hand under my chin and lifted the wet cloth again. Then he paused again.

“What now?” I said.

A low chuckle. “I was just thinking I’ve never seen a woman who looked so beautiful in dirt and cobwebs. Trouble suits you.”

“You have no idea,” I muttered.

“I’m sure I don’t, but I certainly hope I get the chance to find out.” He brushed his finger over my cheek.

“Fleeing for our lives, remember? Let’s save the flattery and soulful gazing until after we escape.”

“Is that a date?”

“Date!” I jumped so fast I knocked the paper towel from his hand. “Sorry. My date. Douglas. He’ll be looking for me. I need to tell him—”

“Tell him what? Don’t worry, I was held captive by a werewolf, but I’m okay now … except for the deranged Cabal sorcerer on my tail?”

I glared up at him. “I’m serious. He’ll be worried.”

“Let him worry. From what I saw, it’s only, what, a first, maybe second date? You didn’t seem very enamored.”

“He’s a nice guy. Kind of. He’s not evil.”

Marsten’s brow shot up. “That’s your dating criteria?”

“You know what I mean. He was worried, and I can’t just walk out on him. Plus, if my mother finds out I abandoned the guy she set me up with—”

“Your mother sets you up on blind dates? With guys like that?” The corners of his mouth twitched. “She doesn’t like you very much, does she?”

“My mother—” I bit back the rest, and started again. “My mother is just fine, which is why I won’t embarrass her like this. Believe me, I embarrass her enough … as much as she tries to pretend otherwise.”

His face softened. “All right. But while I do understand, you’re forgetting—”

“The whole ‘fleeing for our lives’ part?” I took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’ll work something out later. Apologize to my mother. Make it up to Douglas …”

“I don’t think you owe Douglas anything, but if we need to go past the party, you can tell him. Make an excuse to leave, and call it even.”

I was picking cobwebs out of Marsten’s hair when I remembered something else.

“The gun,” I said. “I should’ve grabbed the gun.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. In my experience, guns are only good for threatening. In combat, I’m as likely to shoot my own foot. Best to avoid them altogether.”

“Easy to say when you have super-strength, super-senses, fangs, claws …”

He glanced up at me as I plucked out another cobweb. “You are a—what’s the word they use?—a supernatural, aren’t you?”

“Sure, but not all of us come with built-in defense mechanisms. Why do you think I carry a gun?”

“So what is your—”

“Speaking of my gun, it’s also still back there, in my purse, with my bracelet. Damn it.”

“The charm bracelet is an heirloom, I presume.”

“So you didn’t mistake it for a ‘cheap bauble’ after all. And you still didn’t try to nick it?”

He glowered as he got to his feet.

“What?” I said. “I’ve offended you? I should be ashamed of myself. Those pieces in your pocket just fell in there, didn’t they? Damn museum displays. Stuff just drops off them—”

“Point taken,” he said as he stood and smoothed his hair. “But no, your bracelet isn’t at risk. Valuable or not, it’s worth more to you than to me. These”—he reached into his jacket pocket and transferred the jewels to his trouser pocket—“are worth something only to an insurance company. Which I realize is no excuse, but—” He shrugged. “As for your bracelet, considering it’s with your gun, and you’d probably feel safer carrying that, I suggest we make that office our first stop, presuming Tristan has moved on.”

I shook my head. “Yes, I want it back, but we need to go. I have to trust my purse will still be there when all this is done.”

“I’ll make sure I get it for you later.”

Later? I hoped that didn’t mean he planned to come back and steal something else.

No, he’d been leaving when I’d first stopped him. So why …?

He took my elbow and propelled me toward the door. “Let’s go before they find us.”

It took a few minutes to get my bearings. The laboratories weren’t part of a typical museum tour and were woefully lacking in directional signs. The lack of windows didn’t help. Great for security and artifact preservation; not so great for those needing to end their visit in a hurry.

“There,” I whispered to Marsten. “That’s the media room. I was there last month for a story.”

“You’re a journalist?”

I nodded, not mentioning I’d been covering the story of an “ancient curse” that a former worker swore was responsible for his herpes outbreak.

Did all this mean I’d never cover another silly curse story? An unexpected pang of panic raced through me. I liked what I did. Once I’d worked past the “I’m too good for this” phase, I’d genuinely enjoyed tracking down UFOs and Hell Spawn sightings, far more than I’d ever liked covering drive-by shootings and political scandals. But if I wasn’t working for the council plugging supernatural leaks …

Had I ever been suppressing leaks? Or had I just been covering up a Cabal’s messes?

My gut twisted.

Not now. Time for that later.

I looked up at Marsten. “We’re in the northeast quadrant, closest to the main doors, which I know we can’t use, but there must be an emergency exit.”

“There’s one along the west side, probably fifty feet from the front.”

“Perfect.”

We found the exit. As Marsten strode toward it, I called, “It might trigger an alarm.”

“A chance I’m willing to take.”

I stayed at his heels, eager to be out of this place—

Every hair on my body leapt to attention, my lips parting in an involuntary hiss. I grabbed Marsten by the back of the shirt.

“It’s trapped,” I said.

“I said—”

“Not alarm-trapped. Trap-trapped. Magically. They must have a witch or a sorcerer—” I stopped myself. “Earlier, you said something about a Cabal sorcerer. You meant Tristan, didn’t you?”

As Marsten nodded, I winced. Another unforgivable faux pas. Tristan had let on he was a half-demon, but I’d never seen a display of his powers. If I’d known he was a sorcerer, I would have been suspicious of his “working for the council” story.

Witches led the interracial council, and witches and sorcerers had as little as possible to do with one another. The Cabals were the great sorcerer achievement—powerful corporations staffed by supernaturals and run by sorcerers. I knew little about Cabals—every half-demon I knew stayed away from them and had warned me to do the same—but if I’d realized what Tristan was, I’d have suspected who I’d really been working for.

“What kind of trap is it?” Marsten asked.

I shook my head. “No idea. I can just tell that it’s there, and it’s dangerous.”

When I caught his frown, I said, “That’s my so-called power. Chaos detection. Primarily negative chaos. Like you said, trouble suits me.”

“So you’re a half-demon?”

When I nodded, his frown grew. “Admittedly, my knowledge of demons is next to nothing, but I was under the impression that they were all chaotic. They feed off chaos or some such thing.”

“Demons, yes. Half-demons inherit their father’s special power without his affinity for chaos. Lucky me, I’m the one type that gets the reverse.”

I walked toward the door and peered at it. “All I can tell you about this is that someone cast a spell on it, and I know as much about spells as you do about demons. It might just alert Tristan … or it could immolate us instantaneously.”

“Having no great desire to end the evening in flames, I say we don’t test it.”

“Agreed.” I paused. “I’m sure he’ll have the other unguarded exits trapped, too, and the main one well guarded. So now what?”

“We’ll revert to the second mode of passive defense: hiding. We’ll start by getting that gun for you, then find a safe place and try to outlast them. When the party ends, we’ll exit the floor and slip past his guards.”

When we neared the offices with my purse, Marsten made me wait while he scouted. When he came back, I could tell the news wasn’t good.

“Tristan’s gone, but he left a guard behind,” he whispered.

“Maybe they’re getting rid of the guard’s body.”

He shook his head. “Tristan will want it found eventually. That’s his backup plan.”

“But you said—” I stopped. “That was a lie, wasn’t it? About being part of the werewolf Pack.”

“It’s … complicated. But the Alpha knows I’m not a man-eater. My reputation in that respect is spotless. However, I’ve done things, in the past, to the Pack, and while I’ve had a change of heart in that regard …”

“The ink on your reprieve is still wet, and you can’t afford to test it yet.”

“Exactly.”

“Which is why you tried persuading Tristan to take care of the body.”

“No, I was trying to divert his attention from you. But yes, admittedly, I had a secondary goal in mind.”

“Okay, why don’t we look after it now? Take out Tristan’s guard, and move the body someplace safer, to dispose of it later. That will give me back my gun, and we’ll have one fewer guard to worry about.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “For an amateur, you’re remarkably good at this sort of thing.”

“It’s in my genes.”

NINE

I leaned against the wall, closed my eyes, and focused. The guard was a supernatural, probably half-demon, and after a moment I picked up his vibe, too far away to be in the office with the body.

“He’s in the second office, isn’t he?” I whispered as Marsten returned. “The room we escaped from.”

Marsten’s brows shot up.

“Supernatural radar comes with my package.”

“But you didn’t detect me earlier. Not even when you ran right into me.”

“I did. That’s why I ran into you.” I shook off the urge to explain. “I’m still practicing. The package doesn’t come with a user’s manual.”

“Yes, he is in the second office. Tidying up, it seems.”

“Good, then let’s go.”

“I’ll look after him. You stay—”

He caught my expression and exhaled the softest sigh. “Just stay clear. As you said, I’m better equipped for this. Provide backup if you want, but—”

“Don’t turn this into a hostage situation.”

“Exactly.”

Marsten started to leave, then wheeled back to me. “He’s coming.”

He held his finger to my lips before I could answer. His eyes narrowed as he tracked the footsteps. A moment passed. Then he shoved me in the opposite direction, prodding me around the corner just as the guard stepped into the hall we’d vacated.

Marsten pressed me against the wall, still listening, his body against mine as if he expected the guard to veer around the corner and open fire.

The footfalls grew softer.

Marsten started to pull away from me. Then he froze.

“Was it okay?” a muffled woman’s voice asked. She giggled. “I’m kind of tipsy.”

“It was great, babe.”

Marsten winced as we recognized the privacy-seeking couple from earlier. Guess they’d found what they were looking for.

A door opened less than ten feet away. Marsten swore and looked toward the corner, but it was too late to run, and we’d risk being seen by the departing guard. If we stayed here, though, the couple would recognize him, and if the man got belligerent again, the guard would overhear the argument and—

Marsten’s mouth dropped to mine, and he pushed me up against the wall, his hands wrapping in my hair and pulling it up to shield the sides of our faces. As he kissed me, I felt a stab of disappointment. His kissing was excellent, of course. Polished and perfect, just like the rest of him. For most people, finding an excellent kisser is cause for celebration. But I prefer the ardent gropes and kisses of an enthusiastic—if less experienced—lover.

Behind us, the man laughed. “Looks like we aren’t the only ones looking for a little diversion. There’s an empty office right over there, guys.”

Marsten raised his hand in thanks. The couple moved on. I let the kiss continue for five more seconds, then pulled away.

“They’re gone,” I said.

Marsten frowned, as if surprised—and disappointed—that I’d noticed. I tugged my hair from his hands.

“Okay, coast clear,” I said. “Let’s go.”

He let out a small laugh. “I see I need to brush up on my kissing skills.”

“No, you have that down pat.”

“She says with all the enthusiasm of a teacher grading a math quiz …”

“A-plus. Now let’s move go. Before someone else comes along.”

We reached the office safely. The door was locked, but Tristan hadn’t trigger-spelled it.

Marsten gave the handle a sharp twist, and it snapped open.

“I’ll find my purse,” I said as we hurried inside. “You pull the body out.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I flipped on the light and looked around. No obvious sign of my purse. It must have fallen—

“It’s gone,” Marsten said.

“No, I’m sure it just fell—” I glanced up to see him leaning over the desk. “You meant the body?”

A grim nod, and he pulled the desk farther from the wall. “Find your purse. I’ll find the body.”

He leapt onto the desk, hopped into the gap behind it, bent, and disappeared. I resumed my purse search. I looked under the desk, beside it, between the desk and filing cabinet, under a stack of papers—every place my purse could have fallen and a few it couldn’t.

Marsten popped back over the desk, started to crouch, and then noticed me watching.

“What?” I said when he paused.

“I have to sniff the floor.”

“Then sniff the floor.”

Again he paused, as if trying to think of a dignified way to do it. I sighed and turned my back to give him privacy.

A moment later he said, “Nothing. They must’ve carried him out.”

“Meaning you can’t pick up the trail. Not of the museum guard, at least. But what about Tristan’s guard?”

“Questionable. I can try, but it’s difficult to do in human form.”

He motioned for me to keep looking for my purse as he pitched in, checking the other side of the room.

“I’ll still try tracking,” he said as we searched. “I know a few tricks.”

“Ah, so you did get the user’s manual.”

“Most werewolves do.”

“Right. Most of you are hereditary. So your father …?”

“Raised me and taught me everything I needed to know about following a scent.” A quick smile. “Although there was usually a diamond or two at the other end.”

“Your father raised you to be a thief?”

The smile vanished. “My father raised me to have a career suitable for a non-Pack werewolf who can’t stay in one place without being rousted by the Pack or his fellow ‘mutts.’”

“The Pack doesn’t let—?”

He cut me off with a wave. “It’s not like that anymore. Not entirely. But in my father’s day, a nomadic life was a must, and thieving skills helped.”

“Tell you what, then. You don’t slam my mom for setting me up on blind dates, and I won’t slam your dad for teaching you to steal.”

The smile returned. “Fair enough. No jabs against well-meaning—if occasionally misguided—parents. As for your purse …”

“It’s gone, isn’t it? Tristan or his guard found it when they were cleaning up.”

“Most likely. As for the body, though—”

“Billy?”

The voice echoed down the hall. We both froze and turned toward the closed door.

“Billy? You down here?” Then, softer, “Damn kid.”

It was another security guard, looking for his dead colleague. The only place to hide was the same spot the body had been, behind that desk wedged between the wall and the filing cabinet. Marsten waved for me to get behind the desk, and we both climbed onto it just as the door opened.

A flashlight beam pinged off our backs. Marsten slipped his arm around me in an awkward, interrupted embrace. We looked over our shoulders to see the same older security guard who’d “helped” me open the janitor’s closet. He speared Marsten with a glower.

“Get lost on your way to the bathroom again, sir?” he said. “This is bigger than that storage closet, but I’m sure the young lady would be more comfortable in a hotel. There are two right down the road.”

“Uh, oh, yes, of course,” Marsten stammered. “We weren’t—that is to say, we wanted to look around the museum, see the sights.”

“Oh, I know what sights you wanted to see, sir.” He waved us off the desk. “You’re a long way from the dinosaur exhibits.”

We complied, getting off the desk and pretending to straighten up. The guard continued to glare at Marsten, as if disgusted that a man wealthy enough to afford tickets to this gala couldn’t spring for a bed.

“There’s a Holiday Inn three doors down,” he said as we walked past. “But I’m sure the lady would prefer the Embassy, which is—”

One of Tristan’s guards strode in. He didn’t notice the security guard against the front wall. His attention—and his gun—were on us. The security guard stepped up behind him, surprisingly silent for a man of his size.

“I thought I heard voices,” Tristan’s man said to us. “Good thing I came back. Tristan will—”

The security guard pressed the barrel of his gun between the younger man’s shoulder blades.

“Didn’t see me, huh?” the old guard chortled as the other man stiffened. “A word of advice, boy? Always check the room before you walk into it. Now, lower that gun or—”

The younger man spun, his gun flying up. The security guard’s eyes widened and he froze, whatever ex-cop reflexes he had buried under years of chasing kids off dinosaur displays and foiling amateur thieves. Marsten threw himself at Tristan’s man. I wish I could say I did the same. God, how I wish I could. But the truth is that I just stood there, as shocked into impotence as the old guard.

Tristan’s guard fired.

Marsten hit him in the side, knocking him away even as the silencer’s pffttt still hung in the air, even as the museum guard was still falling, bloody hole through his chest, even as I reeled backward from the chaos explosion.

I hit the floor and, for a moment, could only lie there, system shocked by the high-voltage jolt. If there was any pleasure in that shock, I didn’t feel it. I lay there, gasping, my mind blank. Then another silenced shot snapped me from my shock, and I leapt up. Marsten was crouched over Tristan’s guard, who lay in a heap, neck twisted, eyes open and staring.

“The shot,” I said. “Did he hit—?”

Marsten waved to a bullet hole in the wall but didn’t speak, just stayed crouched with his back to me, his breath coming in sharp pants.

I ran to the old security guard. Even as my fingers went to his neck, I knew he was dead. The bloody spot on his breast now covered half his shirt.

As I looked down at the man, I remembered him sneaking up behind Tristan’s guard, his eyes dancing as he imagined himself retelling the story, how he’d single-handedly apprehended an armed man. I heard his “See, I’ve still got it” chortle as he put his gun to the young man’s back. I rubbed my arms, trying to chase away the chill, unable to pull my gaze from his body.

My first murder. My first witness to death.

What had Marsten said when I’d asked if he thought me a fool? Naive, probably, but not a fool. Probably naive? Could I have been any more naive? I’d pulled a gun on a werewolf thief. I was lucky Marsten hadn’t snapped my neck.

“I need to hide the bodies,” he said, his voice soft. “You can wait in the next room if you’d like.”

“No, I’ll help clean—” I took a deep breath. “I’ll help clean up.”

That’s what I did. Cleaned the crime scene as he hid the corpses. When I realized—really realized—what I was doing, my blood went cold.

All this time playing secret agent, and now that you’re actually doing something illegal, you get scared.

As I wiped away evidence of a crime, all I could think about was what would happen to my family if I was caught. The shame, the embarrassment, the humiliation, but most of all the “why didn’t we do more to help” bewilderment and grief.

What would I say? No, no, you got it all wrong. See, I thought I was helping supernaturals with this interracial council, but really I was working for this sorcerer corporation, and then this werewolf…

I loved my family way too much to inflict that explanation on them.

“It’s clean,” Marsten murmured behind my head. When I tried to give the tile one last rub, he caught my hand. “It’s clean, Hope.”

“Out damned spot,” I said, trying to smile.

“There’s no blood on your hands.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” I said softly.

I thought of all the cases I’d solved, the “criminal” supernaturals I’d turned in. I could see that one witch, so terrified she couldn’t cast a spell, begging me—begging me—not to hand her over, swearing it wasn’t the council who wanted her but a Cabal.

“Hope?” Marsten grasped my shoulder, his grip hard enough to push back the memory.

“Sorry,” I murmured. “Just … ghosts.”

“Whatever you did, you thought you were helping supernaturals.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? It’s actions that count, not intentions. Ignorance isn’t an excuse. That’s what my ethics prof always said. Ignorance isn’t—”

I chomped down on my lip hard enough to draw blood and then pushed myself to my feet. “So what’s next? Resume the plan and find a place to hide?”

He nodded. “We’ll try that.”

That didn’t sound very optimistic, but considering our luck so far, I can’t say I blamed him.

TEN

We discussed options and settled on hiding out in one of the less “sexy” exhibits—those displaying artifacts unlikely to interest a bored partygoer conducting his own off-limits tour. The ceramics or textiles galleries seemed like the safest bets.

Both required going up the back stairs and passing the party, but we’d take the back hall around it. Seeing two people die had convinced me this wasn’t the time to worry about my abandoned date.

We hurried into the hall skirting the gala and then veered left. We jogged through the looming skeletons of the dinosaur exhibit, and were crossing to the Graeco-Roman wing when I picked up the twang of a supernatural vibe.

I told Marsten. He listened for footsteps and then inhaled for scents.

“Tristan and the other guard,” he said. “Coming right where we’re headed. Is there another—?”

He stopped and answered his question by looking at the open doors down the hall. A quartet of men lounged in the doorway, ties and jackets off. Beyond them stood more gaggles of partygoers.

“We could go back,” I said.

“Too late,” he said, and steered me toward the party.

“We’ll cut straight across to the main exit,” I said as we moved. “From there, the first left will take us to ceramics.”

We squeezed past the drunken quartet, who were ill-inclined to move out of our way. Once inside, I motioned to the door across the room.

From there, we could slip into the ceramics exhibit. We were passing the buffet table when I caught sight of Douglas, still talking to the Bairds. Douglas saw me and then looked beside him. Figures. Here I was, worrying that he’d been worrying, and he probably hadn’t even noticed I’d been gone. Douglas only lifted his brows in polite question. When I gestured to the buffet table, he smiled, nodded, and turned back to the Bairds.

“Don’t mind me,” I muttered. “I’m just passing through, killers in hot pursuit. No, no, it’s okay. You just go back to networking. I’m fine.”

Beside me, Marsten chuckled. “Your mother knows how to pick them, doesn’t she?”

As I rolled my eyes, Marsten’s gaze shot to the door we’d come through, and I saw Tristan and the other guard brush past the drunken quartet. Douglas lifted a finger and motioned me over. Probably wanted me to grab him something from the buffet.

When I hesitated, Marsten tugged the back of my dress and nearly yanked me off my feet. I backpedaled as fast as I could to keep from tripping, as Marsten dragged me into a large group of people and out of Douglas’s sight. I spouted apologies to the partygoers whose circle we’d invaded—and whose toes we were crushing as we scrambled to get to the other door.

When I glanced back, Tristan’s guard was striding around the back of the buffet table, moving as fast as he dared without calling attention to himself.

Marsten gave me a shove, none too gently, toward the door. I hurried out it and turned left, toward the ceramics exhibit.

When I rounded the first corner, Marsten caught up and pushed something at me. A tuxedo jacket. Not his, which we’d discarded back in the lab, but presumably one he grabbed from a chair in the gala.

“Take it,” he said when I made no move to do so. “Put it on.”

I almost said, “But I’m not cold,” an automatic response that, under the circumstances, would have made me look like an idiot. Instead, I settled for an equally idiotic “Huh?” stare.

“Your dress,” he said.

My …? Oh, shit. My canary yellow dress. When I’d bought it, I pictured myself as a glowing beacon in the black night. Now, I had my wish. I might as well be wearing a flashing neon sign.

Marsten steered me around the next corner.

“The ceramics are the other—” I began.

“I know. We’re circling back. He won’t expect that. Now put this on.”

I took the jacket as we jogged into a room of Grecian urns. It fell past my short skirt, and could have wrapped around me twice. The sleeves hung past my fingertips.

“A bit big,” I whispered.

“No, you’re just a bit small. Now move—”

He grabbed my arm and stopped me from moving. I caught the distant sound of footsteps—running footsteps, growing steadily louder. Marsten pushed me into a gap between two stelae, and squeezed in with me.

When only one set of footfalls entered the room, Marsten’s eyes narrowed, and his fingers flexed against my sides. As he tracked the steps, his face went taut.

What had Tristan said about a cornered werewolf? Looking up at Marsten’s face, I knew he’d been right, not because a cornered werewolf panics and lashes out, but because no predator willingly accepts the position of prey.

When Marsten’s lips moved to my ear, I knew what he was going to say.

“Wait here.”

One look at Marsten’s expression and my protest dried up. He was right. Things had changed since he’d halfheartedly tried to keep me from following him into danger. Two men had died, and I’d learned this wasn’t some movie jewel-heist caper, where the most I stood to lose was my dignity.

I nodded and let him slip off into the darkness alone.

The footsteps had stopped, as if our pursuer had paused. Was it Tristan or his guard? I trusted Marsten’s nose could tell. It would make a difference, facing a sorcerer versus a half-demon.

With the other man standing still, the room had gone silent, but Marsten managed to move without breaking that silence. I could see his white shirt gliding—

His white shirt? I should have offered him the jacket.

I eased forward enough to glance out. About fifteen feet away, beside a gilt statue of Athena, stood the guard we’d knocked out and handcuffed. He faced the other side of the room, with his back to Marsten.

Marsten crept forward, his gaze fixed on the guard, managing to skirt obstacles as if by instinct. His feet rolled from heel to toe, soundless. The guard’s gaze swept a hundred and eighty degrees, and I fell back, but Marsten only froze in place.

The guard took three steps and then peered around another statue. Marsten kept pace less than five feet behind, so close I half expected the guard to feel Marsten’s breath on his neck.

Marsten took one last step, tensed, and sprang. At the last second the guard turned, too late to fire his gun but fast enough to throw Marsten off his trajectory.

Marsten checked his leap at the last second and smacked the guard’s gun arm back hard and fast. The guard let out a hiss—part pain, part rage—and dove for the gun.

Marsten knocked the guard flying. The guard crashed into a vase stuffed with replica scrolls. As he reached up, sparks flew from his fingertips, and I knew his half-demon power. Fire.

The guard’s hand closed around a scroll. Even as my lips parted to shout a warning to Marsten, the paper burst into flame. The guard swung the fiery torch at Marsten, who was already in mid-leap, coming straight at him.

The scroll caught Marsten in the side of the face, and he fell back. The guard dropped the paper, now nearly ash, and dove for Marsten, his good hand going to Marsten’s throat. Marsten drilled his fist into the guard’s stomach. As the guard fell, he grabbed Marsten’s arm, and Marsten yanked away, but I could see the guard’s scorched handprint on his white sleeve.

As the two men launched into a full supernatural power brawl, I finally snapped out of my “mmm, chaos” intoxication, and realized that I too had a weapon—the guard’s gun lying less than twenty feet away.

I crept along the shadows, moving from exhibit to exhibit. Yes, I was worried about the guard spotting me and deciding I made an easier target, but I was even more worried about distracting Marsten.

Whether Marsten could be distracted was another question. He fought with the single-minded purpose of someone who’s done a lot of it. Not what I would have expected. But was I surprised? No. I had seen that look in his eyes, and I hoped never to be on the receiving end of it again.

The gun had slid under a scale model of Pompeii. I managed to get behind the low table. Then I stretched out on my stomach. I reached into the narrow opening until my shoulder jammed against it and swept my hand back and forth, feeling nothing but gum wrappers and dust bunnies.

I peered under the display table. In the dim emergency lighting, I could see the gun still inches from my fingertips. I wriggled and stretched and twisted and finally brushed the barrel. Another wiggle, and I got my index finger into the lip. Not the safest thing to do with a loaded gun, but I managed to tug it forward enough to grab it from a safer angle.

I crouched, steadied the gun, and then jumped up—

Marsten was sitting beside the guard’s prone body, surveying the burn damage to his shirt. He looked over at me, poised Dirty Harry style, gun drawn, hair wild, still drowning in the oversized tux jacket. His lips twitched.

“I, uh, have the gun,” I said.

“So I see.”

“And I see you have the situation, uh, under control. So I’ll just …”

I let the sentence trail off as I lowered the gun and moved from behind a table, ignoring his barely stifled laughter.

“If you can stand guard, I’ll hide this one,” he said as I approached.

As I looked down at the dead guard, I pushed back a stab of regret. This had long passed “just knock him out” solutions. We already had knocked this guard out—and handcuffed him—and he’d still come after us. Still, if I had managed to leap up from behind that table, could I have pulled the trigger?

You’ve been carrying a gun for a year, and you don’t know whether you could have fired it? What did you think it was? A fashion accessory?

“Hope?”

Still crouched beside the body, Marsten touched my leg, gently prodding me back to reality.

“If you are not up to it—” he began.

“Guard duty. Got it.”

ELEVEN

The burning scroll hadn’t triggered any fire alarms, nor had the grunts and punches of combat been loud enough to bring partygoers running. As Marsten stowed the dead guard, I concentrated on both exits, looking, sensing, and listening. I caught a supernatural vibe just as Marsten said, “Footsteps. Supernatural?”

I nodded. “Are they coming—?”

“This way,” he said. “From the direction we did.”

I glanced toward the other doorway but knew without asking that Marsten had no intention of fleeing. When Tristan realized he’d lost both his guards, he wouldn’t walk away. He’d call in reinforcements, presumably the guys watching the main doors.

Marsten turned to track the approaching footsteps. “More than one set. Probably partygoers. Can you tell?”

I concentrated, but my heart was pounding, reminding me with each rib-jangling beat that I didn’t have time to dawdle. My powers caved under the pressure, and I couldn’t even pick up that one vibe anymore.

“It doesn’t matter,” Marsten whispered when I told him. “We’ll see them soon enough.”

The last word was leaving his lips as Tristan came into view, flanked by what could only be two more Cabal men. Marsten let out an oath and propelled me back to our original hiding spot between the stelae.

As they passed, I saw Tristan take his cell phone from his ear and scowl.

“Russell still not answering?” one of the guards said.

Tristan shook his head. “I’ll try Mike. See if he can go look for Russell.”

Marsten and I glanced at one another and then at the spot where Marsten had hidden the body—less than three feet from us. As Tristan finished dialing, Marsten tensed and I tugged the gun from my pocket, waiting for the dead guard’s phone to ring. Then I leaned out to see Tristan as he kept walking, phone to his ear. Seconds ticked past. He stabbed the Disconnect button.

“Set to vibrate,” Marsten whispered.

That made sense. Nothing blows your cover faster than the chords of “Ride of the Valkyries” resounding through a supposedly off-limits hall.

When the three were gone, we headed back the other way, across the main hall and into the biodiversity wing, a.k.a. the stuffed animal gallery. On the other side was the ceramics exhibit. Halfway across the biodiversity room, we caught the strains of a lively monologue coming from the ceramics gallery. The midnight behind-the-scenes tour.

I debated joining them and taking refuge in numbers. The wisdom of that depended on how likely he thought Tristan was to avoid public confrontation. After a moment I shook my head, and Marsten prodded me toward the narrow opening between a pillar and the African savanna diorama.

He backed in first and crouched to sit on a fan box. Then he motioned for me to back onto his lap.

We settled in for what could be a long wait. Or he settled. My brain was racing, struggling to hold back all the regrets and self-recriminations I’d have to deal with later. To distract myself, I indulged instead in replays of the running and fighting—those delicious spurts of chaos that only sent my heart tripping.

Soon other visions crept in: a vulture circling overhead, an ocean of long dry grass whispering as I moved through it, a breeze bringing the heavenly scent of musk, my stomach growling, tail twitching in anticipation—

As Marsten adjusted his hands, his fingers grazed my hardened nipples and I let out an involuntary moan, my breath coming faster.

He chuckled. “Not immune to me after all, I see.”

“Hmmm?”

He cupped his hand under my left breast, and pressed it there as my heart raced beneath his fingers. When those fingers climbed to my nipple again, I moaned again.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s not you.”

Another chuckle. “If you want to tell yourself that …”

I closed my eyes and saw the lioness crouch, hindquarters twitching, mouth watering in anticipation. I could feel her excitement, pulse racing, and my own raced to match it. Marsten’s hand slid up to my shoulder and I sucked in breath.

He hesitated. “Either half-demons have some strange erogenous zones, or you’re right. It’s not me, is it?”

I opened my eyes. “It’s—” I waved at the display. “I pick things up, from the past … chaos.”

Another brush against my hard nipples. “And this is what happens?”

“Mmm, yes.” My eyes closed again. “Strange, I know …”

“Actually, no. Not to me, at least. Should I stop?”

“Not unless you want to.”

A soft chuckle. He unzipped my dress and tugged it off my shoulder, pulling the bra down with it. A wave of cool air rushed over my bare breast and I shivered, backing against him as his hand went to my breast, lips to my neck, tongue sliding over the sensitive spot behind my ear, raising more shivers. I shifted again and he put his free hand around my waist and repositioned me on his lap. I felt his erection, hard against my rear, and pushed against it, thrusting softly. He let out a low growl and moved his lips to my ear.

“Tell me what you see,” he whispered.

When I hesitated, his free hand moved to my leg, pushing up my skirt, fingers tickling up the inside of my thigh. He traced the edges of my panties and then slid a finger under them. I parted my legs to let him in, but he only teased me with his finger.

“Tell me,” he said.

“It’s … a hunt.”

“Mmmm.” A growling chuckle. “Nothing like a good hunt. What do you see?”

I told him, the words coming hesitant at first, then flowing faster as his finger slid in, moving expertly, egging me on when I slowed, my excitement feeding his. As the lioness sprang for the kill, I felt the first wave of climax—

Then he stopped.

“It’s still not me, is it?”

“Wh—wha—?”

His lips moved down my neck. “Yes, it’s insufferably vain of me, but if I’m going to seduce you, I want to be the cause of your arousal, not the passive recipient.”

“You don’t seem all that passive to me.”

He laughed but shook his head, fingers still on my thigh.

I craned around to look at him. “So that’s it, you’re just going to leave me hanging?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me, would it?”

“Not at all.”

“Hmmm.”

He still hesitated, toying with the edge of my panties.

“Well …?” I said.

“I’m trying to decide …”

“I say yes.”

He laughed. “I doubt it, and I doubt we’re thinking of the same question.”

“Which is …?”

“Control. As in, can I help you without wanting to help myself to you?”

I turned around and repositioned myself on his lap, facing him, squarely straddling him, hands around his neck. “What if I’m offering?”

He growled deep in his throat, and reached for me, pulling me against him, hands tugging up my skirt as I unbuttoned his trousers—

An alarm rang, so fast and sudden I almost toppled backward off him.

I looked around. Smoke wafted from the hall. I pictured the fire demon again, reaching for the vase of scrolls, sparks raining from his fingertips. A few must have fallen into the vase, smoldered there, and caught fire.

From the next room came the shrieks of people hearing alarms, smelling smoke, and reacting as if the building had transformed into the Towering Inferno. I caught the first lick of chaos and shivered.

Marsten’s arms went around me, pulling me back against him with a hard thrust and a soft growl. I rotated to face him, my hands going around his neck, mouth finding his, drinking in the chaos arising around us. It was just a burning building. I had a more urgent fire to put out.

Marsten growled again, this one harsher as he pulled his lips from mine.

“I hate to be the one to bring this up, but …”

“The building’s on fire?” I said.

“Unfortunately.”

I slipped my hands under his shirt. “How fast can it burn?”

A low, growling chuckle as he pressed against me. “You have no idea how badly I’m tempted to test that. But I have to remind myself that you’re acting under the influence of something.”

“Something other than you, you mean.”

“There’s that, too.”

“Vain,” I said, poking him in the chest.

He caught me up in a hard, deep, tongue-diving, groin-grinding kiss, then put me back on my feet.

“Time to go,” he said, and started across the room.

“Tease.”

“Just giving you something to remember, once all this is out of the way.”

We reached the main hall to find it logjammed with people. Marsten led me straight into the heart of the mob. The crowd buoyed us along, and before I knew it, the cool night breeze was rippling through my hair. I looked up, and only then, seeing the stars winking against the city’s glow, could I truly believe it.

We were out. Free.

If Tristan and his guards were here, they’d be watching with dismay as the museum expelled a steady river of white shirts and black jackets and nary a yellow dress to be found.

As fire engines and taxis competed for curb space, sirens and blaring horns rose above the din of partygoers yelling for their lost spouses and friends. A few taxis managed a passenger snatch-and-grab before the police cordoned off the area.

We let the crowd carry us across the road, where the taxis were regrouping. Marsten’s grip suddenly tightened, and he ducked sideways, nearly plowing me into a white-haired woman with a walker. As I glared at him, a voice cut through the din.

“Hope? Hope!”

“Don’t look,” Marsten muttered by my ear as he steered us into another pocket of people. “Just pretend you don’t—”

“Hope?”

Douglas cut between a couple. He smiled at me. There I was, bedraggled and dirty, hair flying everywhere, wearing a tux jacket, running from a burning building, and he only smiled, as if I’d just popped back from the buffet line.

“The Bairds have invited us for drinks,” he said.

I stared, certain somehow the din around us had turned “Oh my God, are you okay?” into an invitation for post-inferno cocktails.

“I—I have to go,” I said finally. “The—the paper. The fire. I need to—”

“Oh, you’ll need to write it up, won’t you?” He smiled and winked. “For a cause, I’d go with spontaneous human combustion.”

“I was thinking more of fire demons,” I muttered.

“Sure. That’s different. I’ll let you go, then. Have fun, and don’t work too hard.”

Marsten yanked me backward again, as Douglas slipped off through the crowd. When we reached the sidewalk, Marsten body-checked a young man and shoved me through an open cab door, crawled in after me, and slammed it.

He looked over. “Your address?”

I gave it.

To the driver, though, Marsten just said, “Head east.”

“Riverside is beside the river,” I said. “Which is north.”

Marsten just shut the panel between the front and rear seats and buckled up.

“To be safe, you should spend the evening someplace else. Is your mother in the city?”

“Yes, but if I’m in danger, I’m certainly not taking it to her.”

“Friend, sibling, cousin …”

“Same issue. We should find a hotel or motel and get some rest before we figure out how to resolve this, because I’m assuming Tristan won’t just give up and go away.”

“He won’t. All right, then. We’ll find a hotel, and I’ll make sure it’s safe. Then, when I come back—”

“Back?”

He patted the trouser pocket with the jewels. “I need to take care of these tonight. I shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.”

“Just long enough to hunt down and kill Tristan?”

When Marsten looked over, I said, “I may be foolish, but I’m not stupid and, after tonight, not nearly so naive. The only way to end this is to kill Tristan, so that’s what you’re going to do. That is why you said you’d retrieve my bracelet ‘later’—you meant once I was out of the building and you went back for Tristan.”

He studied my expression and then nodded. “I’ve tried walking away twice, and he refuses to leave it at that. I can’t walk away again.”

“That’s why you asked for my address, isn’t it? Because you think that’s where he’ll go. Right now, I’m the more urgent threat, the one who could let his Cabal know about his extracurricular activities.”

“Yes.”

“Then you know I’m not going to a hotel.” I held up a hand against his protest. “Have I interfered yet?”

“No, but—”

“And I won’t. I am so far out of my league—” I shook my head. “Let’s just say I won’t embarrass myself further or endanger you by interfering. But Tristan wants me, and if you show up alone at my townhouse, he’ll know it’s a trap.”

Marsten hesitated. Then he pulled back the panel and gave the driver my address.

TWELVE

I live in a brownstone backing onto the river and surrounding parkland. Not your typical twenty-something tabloid journalist digs.

My mother had bought the place while I was in J-school. She called it an investment, but when I graduated, she’d wanted to give it to me. College had been a struggle—not academically but personally, as I’d dealt with my demon powers, which my family presumed were mental health issues. I think the brownstone was Mom’s graduation gift … and hopefully a source of stability for a daughter sorely in need of it.

I love the townhouse, love the area, love my beautiful riverfront “backyard” with its winding forest trails, an escape whenever I need it, which seems to be often. So I’d agreed to keep living there, as a property manager of sorts, maintaining the building and protecting Mom’s investment. But I refused to take the deed, and insisted on paying all expenses and upkeep—though the property taxes alone were nearly enough to bankrupt me. Thank God I had two jobs—

Two jobs?

As the taxi disgorged us on the front lawn, I stared up at my beloved brownstone and realized I no longer had two jobs. Probably not even one.

Of course, my mother could—and would—step in and pay the bills, and do so happily, without ever mentioning it. I so desperately didn’t want that.

I’d given my mother enough sleepless nights to last a lifetime. I often wondered whether, at some level, she knew my problems were rooted in something she’d done, that brief post-separation encounter that no one could blame her for. Even though she didn’t understand the true nature of my trouble, I think she blamed herself, and I didn’t want that. I wanted to be strong and independent and stable, to be able to take her for lunches on my dime and say, “See, Mom, I’m doing fine.” And I had reached that point, stuffed with the newfound confidence my job had given me—

“We’d better get inside,” Marsten whispered as the cab pulled away.

He looked around, nostrils flaring, body tense, ready for trouble. Not the time to worry about my life’s recent crash and burn. When this was over, I should just be thankful I still had a life to repair.

“Good security,” Marsten whispered as I undid the dual deadbolt. “Are the other doors and windows—?”

“All armed. Motion detectors in every room, too. My mom worries.”

I hurried in to disarm the system. It was still active. If Tristan had beat us here, he’d backed off when he saw my security. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood that ignored screaming sirens.

“What now?” I said as Marsten relocked the front door.

“Turn on a couple of lights, and stay away from the windows. Is that open land out back?”

“A park,” I said. “Mostly forest.”

“Good. That’s where I’ll try to get him, then. Away from the houses. We’ll stay here for a bit, give him time to arrive and stake out the house. Then I’ll Change and lead him into the forest.”

“Change?” The words But I don’t have anything for you to wear were on my lips when I realized what he meant. “Into a wolf.”

He nodded. “By far the preferred way for dealing with these things. It’s easier to track, easier to fight, and”—a quick smile—“a built-in disguise if anyone sees me.”

I flipped on the living room and hall lights.

“What about the television?” I said. “Should I turn that on, too?”

A brow arch. “We escape death, flee to the safety of your townhouse … and watch television?”

“So what would Tristan expect—?” I followed his gaze to the stairs leading to the second level. “Ah, of course. You’d want a good night’s rest.”

“And that’s probably all I’d get,” he muttered. “Unless I set the place on fire first. From Tristan’s point of view, though, we just had a harrowing evening, I saved your life—”

“You did?”

“Play along. You take me upstairs—”

“Oh, reward sex.” I paused. “But for proper reward sex, we probably wouldn’t even make it past the front door. I just push you against the wall, get down on my knees—”

He cut me off with a growl. “I’d suggest you stop there unless you plan to follow through.”

“I might follow through … if you’d saved my life.” I swung around the banister onto the stairs. “Not that you’d let me follow through, though. No sex unless it’s you I want, remember? No chaos sex. No reward sex. That’s your rule.”

He muttered something and followed me up the stairs.

At Marsten’s suggestion, the first thing I did was remove my dress … which sounds a whole lot more interesting than it was. As he pointed out, heels and a slinky yellow dress didn’t make good late night commando gear. While he cleaned up, I put on jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Then we headed for my bedroom. Yes, I have a separate dressing room. It’s a three-bedroom townhouse—I’m just trying to make efficient use of space. Really.

I walked into my darkened bedroom, flicked on the light, then made a face.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s a mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Poor Doug.” Marsten walked to the unmade bed, plunked down on it, and gave it a test bounce. “Doesn’t get a lot of use, I’ll bet.”

“I’m picky. Sorry.”

A wolfish grin. “Don’t be. I like picky.” He pushed to his feet. “Well, no, usually I don’t like picky, but this time I think I do.”

With a sidelong glance through the window, he put his arms around my waist, leaned down, and kissed me. It was a slow kiss, easy and relaxed, with none of the practiced attention to art of his first kiss.

“Setting the scene?” I murmured with a nod toward the window.

“A good excuse.” He kissed me again and then sighed. “You really are immune, aren’t you?”

“To what?” I caught his look and rolled my eyes. “Oh please. You really are vain, aren’t you?”

“I already admitted that. I can’t help it. I’m accustomed to having my attentions returned.”

“Hmm.”

“Not even going to bite for that, are you?”

I stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed. “What? If you find me attractive, I’m honor bound to return the compliment? Fine, yes, you have your charms.”

A twist of his lips.

“That’s not good enough? Okay, let me try again. I think you’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen and I can barely keep my hands off you …Well, not when there’s a decent source of chaos around.”

He growled and scooped me up off the bed, kissing me again.

“Enough already,” I said, squirming free. “I admitted you were—”

“Charming.”

“I said you had your charms.”

“Which means you find me charming.”

“No, well, yes, you are charming, but I don’t find that charming.”

He laughed and shook his head. “All right, you find me physically attractive, then.”

“Yes, you are, but no, I don’t find that particularly attractive.”

He bared his teeth in a quick grin and stepped closer. “My wit?”

I moved back and shrugged. “Witty enough, though not as witty as you think you are.”

“Ouch.” He gave an almost self-mocking grin. “Then it must be my undeniable sense of style.”

“Because you can pick out a decent tux?” I snorted. “There’s, what, one color option, two or three styles?”

A feigned look of shock. “You mean you don’t find me irresistibly suave, debonair—”

“Where I grew up, guys learn suave from the cradle.”

His grin only grew. “Then whatever you find attractive about me has nothing to do with any of this—” He waved his hands over himself. “—this infinitely polished package?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Very good.”

He caught me up in a kiss. As he did, a distant vibe twanged through me.

“They’re here,” I whispered.

Marsten glanced out the window, his body blocking mine, gaze scanning the dark street.

“They’re across the road,” he murmured as he turned back to me. “They must have just arrived. On the count of three, I’m swinging you past the window and onto the bed.”

He did. As soon as I hit the mattress, I rolled to the far side and dropped onto the floor. Marsten followed. We crawled into the hall, down the stairs, and to the back door. We reached it in time to duck behind the kitchen cabinets before we heard footsteps. The guard tested the door, peered in, and then moved on.

“Quickly,” Marsten murmured. “They’ll be back. This is the safest place to break in.”

As we slipped onto the rear deck, I started pushing the handle in, to relock it when it closed. Marsten caught my hand.

“We want them to know we came out this way,” he whispered.

Hunched over, darting from bush to tree to garden shed, I led him across my tiny yard, and down the small hill to the woodland beyond. Marsten found a place for me to hide. He made sure I had my gun and warned me, whatever happened, to stay where I was. Then he gave me a card from his wallet and told me, if he didn’t return in an hour, I was to get to a public place, call the handwritten number on the back, and explain everything.

A moment later, he was gone.

I did as Marsten instructed. I had no choice. As impotent as I felt cowering in those bushes, I knew, if I tried to help, I’d more likely get us both killed.

I listened as the soft lullaby of cricket and frog calls went silent under the heavy footfalls and guttural muttering of Tristan and his guards. I listened as those mutters gave way to orders and oaths. I listened as those trudging footsteps divided and turned into running feet. I listened as a shot shattered the night. Then a scream, cut short by flashing fangs.

That wasn’t my imagination working overtime. I saw those fangs flash, smelled bowels give way, felt hot blood spatter my face, and the visions brought not a split second of chaos bliss. With every cry, every scream, every silenced pistol shot, I was certain Marsten had been hit.

The death vision came twice, and still I heard multiple running feet and voices. My God, how many were there? How would he ever—

Another shot. Then a piercing canine yelp of pain.

THIRTEEN

I gripped my gun and slunk through the shadows until I was close enough to see a flashlight beam cutting a swath through the dark forest. The beam stopped, and my gaze followed its path through the trees.

A black mound of fur lay motionless at the end of that flashlight beam. A guard stood beside the mound, his gun pointed down.

Something flashed near the top of the heap, a blue eye reflected in Tristan’s flashlight beam. The eye rolled, following Tristan. I took another three steps, until that dark mound became a massive wolf, lying on his belly, his head lowered but not down, ears and lips drawn back as he watched Tristan’s approach. The fur on Marsten’s shoulder was matted with blood. The guard had his gun pointed at Marsten’s head, and I couldn’t tell whether he was staying down because of that gun or because he was too badly injured to rise.

“Hope!”

Tristan’s voice rang out so loud that I jumped. Only the barest rustle of dead leaves gave me away, but Marsten’s ears swiveled in my direction. His black nostrils flared. Then he let out a low growl, and I knew that growl was for me. As clear a Get the hell out of here as if he’d shouted the words.

“Hope!” Tristan yelled again. “I know you’re there.”

Marsten’s muzzle turned sharply as bushes crackled. The top of a head bobbed from the darkness. Tristan waved for the guard to stand near Marsten.

“Hope! Don’t you think you’ve caused enough trouble tonight? Three men dead and another to follow? All because you couldn’t do your job and catch one man—a thief, no less. Isn’t that what you’d signed on to do? Help us put away scum like Karl Marsten?”

When Marsten had found us hiding spots, he’d emphasized protecting our backs. So where could I safely …?

I looked up into the trees.

While Tristan shouted for me, I scurried to the nearest candidate, grabbed the lowest branch, and channeled my inner tomboy. In minutes I was lying on my stomach on a thick branch.

“Hope! You have thirty seconds to show yourself, or I put a bullet in this mutt’s head.”

I ignored him. He wasn’t about to kill the only way he had to get to me.

My sight line into the clearing was less than ideal. I could make out heads and torsos, but nothing below waist level, which included Marsten. I wriggled farther along the branch and spotted him, still on the ground at the guard’s feet, his head raised as he glowered at Tristan.

“Hope? Last chance.”

Tristan’s finger moved to the trigger. Was I so sure he wouldn’t shoot? Tristan wanted Marsten dead, wouldn’t leave this forest until he was dead. He had him dead to rights. Getting me was secondary.

“Wait!” The word flew out before I could stop it.

Tristan smiled and lowered his gun. “That’s my girl.”

“I want to negotiate,” I said. “I made a mistake.”

“Yes, Hope, you did.”

Tristan hand-signaled for one guard to search in the direction of my voice.

“Uh-uh,” I said. “I’m not coming out. Not yet.”

Tristan jerked his chin, motioning for the guard to circle around from behind.

“Don’t tell him to sneak up on me, either,” I called, my voice ringing in the stillness. “I can sense supernaturals, remember? He comes anywhere near me, and I’ll do what you threatened to do to Karl—put a bullet in his head.”

“Ah, a bullet.” He pulled my pistol from his pocket. “From this gun, maybe?”

I unscrewed the silencer and fired the gun into the ground below. “No, this gun.”

“So you have a weapon. Wonderful. It would be even better if you knew how to use it. But they don’t teach marksmanship in debutante classes, do they?”

“Do you really think I’d let you go to all the trouble of getting me a gun and not even learn how to use it? I’m a keener, Tristan, remember? I was at the gun club an hour after you handed it to me. Oh, and yes, the West Hills Country Club does have marksmanship facilities. Excellent facilities. You’d like it … if they’d ever let you in.”

Tristan stiffened.

“I made a mistake,” I said. “Marsten tricked me.”

Tristan smiled. “Charmed you, more like.”

“No, he lied to me,” I said as I looked around, babbling while I searched for a way to help Marsten. “He said I’m working for a Cabal, not the interracial council.”

One of the guards shot Tristan a confused look, mouthing, “Council?”

So they didn’t know?

The other two guards had been in on Tristan’s scheme, but these ones apparently had no idea what I was talking about. Marsten said Tristan was working on personal revenge, that the Cabal would never have sanctioned his death. The other two guards had known that. They must have been moonlighting outside the Cabal with Tristan. But these two weren’t? Interesting …

“I don’t know what you hope to gain by killing me, Tristan.” I pulled out the business card Marsten had given me. “We’ve already called—”

Earlier, I’d glanced at it just long enough to register the last name—Cortez—and I’d remembered Marsten saying he’d done work for Benicio Cortez’s son, Lucas, the one who wasn’t part of the Cabal. So that’s the name I expected. When I saw what was really printed there, my heart thudded.

I turned it over. A handwritten phone number. Oh God, was that real? What if it wasn’t?

“Yes, Hope? You were saying?”

I’d been about to say that I’d called the person on the card and told him everything. But that wouldn’t work now. If I had already called, these guards wouldn’t be here.

“Who am I really working for, Tristan?” I said. “Who sanctioned this job?”

He snuck a look at the guards. “The Cortez Cabal, Hope. You already said that.”

“Yes, but I … I’m confused. You two down there. When you were called in, what did Mr. Cortez say Karl’s crime was?”

The guards looked at one another.

“Wait,” I said. “Mr. Cortez didn’t give the order, did he? So what did Tristan say Karl’s crime was?”

“He’s a thief,” Tristan said, surveying the forest as if trying to pinpoint my voice.

“Okay … but—well, he’s been a thief all his life, right? And his father before him. But now, out of the blue, Mr. Cortez decides he deserves to die for it? Right after Karl joined the Pack. Right after the Pack joins the interracial council. Wouldn’t killing a Pack werewolf cause a serious diplomatic crisis? I thought Mr. Cortez was pretty careful about stuff like that.”

The guards turned to Tristan.

“I don’t question my orders,” Tristan said.

“Maybe, but I do. I’m going to call Mr. Cortez. Got his card right here.” I read off the Cabal office phone number, so they’d know I was telling the truth. “And while I’m sure that would get me through to some flunky, I can save time by using the number on the back. Benicio Cortez’s personal number.”

“How’d she get—?” one of the guards began.

“She didn’t, you—” Tristan clipped off the insult. “It’s a stalling tactic. You really are a naive little girl, aren’t you, Hope? Where did you get Benicio Cortez’s number? Dialing 411?”

The second guard snickered, but the first took out his cell phone.

“Here,” he said. “Give me the number and I’ll call.”

Tristan smiled. “Yes, Hope. Give him the number.”

I stammered it out instead, as if I was making it up … which I really hoped I wasn’t. What if someone had given it to Marsten as a joke?

As I read the number, I looked down at him, trying to gauge his reaction, but his eyelids were flagging, as if he was struggling to stay conscious.

My hesitant delivery made Tristan smile, and he made no attempt to stop the guard from dialing, just leaned back against a tree and awaited my downfall.

Ten seconds after the guard finished dialing, his head jerked up.

“Mr. Cortez?”

Tristan chuckled and shook his head.

“This is Bryan Trau,” the guard said. “SA Unit 17. I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but we have a situation here.”

Tristan jumped so fast he nearly tripped. He motioned for the guard to hand over the phone, but the guard stepped away. Tristan started to lift his gun but stopped as the second guard raised his.

The guard explained the situation. When he was finished, he listened and said, “Yes, sir,” then held out the phone.

“Mr. Cortez would like to speak to you.”

Tristan stepped back and looked ready to bolt. Then he caught sight of Marsten and must have, in that second, seen a possible way out: the elimination of the only person who could confirm the entire story. He lifted his gun.

A shot.

I didn’t think. I jumped from the tree. The second I started falling, my brain screamed, Idiot!

I hit the ground hard, but scrambled up. As I ran to the clearing, I heard, “Yes, sir.” Pause. “No, sir. He’s gone.”

I flew into the clearing to see the guard on the phone, kneeling beside a body. Tristan’s body.

“Yes, sir, I did. You said if he made a move—” A pause, then the guard nodded and glanced over at me. “She’s here now.”

The guard held out the phone. I hesitated, then took it.

“Is this the young woman who was with Karl?” a voice asked. A pleasant voice. Calm and alert, as if he hadn’t been woken in the middle of the night.

He asked whether I was hurt and what had happened, his tone mild but concerned, avuncular, not what I’d expect from the head of the most powerful Cabal in the country. After a few quick questions, he said, “You’ve had a very long night, and I’m sorry you had to go through this, but I can assure you, Mr. Robard was acting outside his jurisdiction. Since he is an employee, though, I take full responsibility for his actions, and will do everything I can to put things right, starting with looking after Karl. Is he badly hurt?”

I’d been so shocked I hadn’t even checked. I raced to Marsten’s side. The second guard was already there, tending to Marsten, who was unconscious. He’d been shot through the shoulder, and his entire side was wet and sticky. Blood must have been pumping out the whole time he’d been lying there.

Mr. Cortez assured me a doctor was on the way from a nearby satellite office.

FOURTEEN

The guards carried Marsten back to my house and returned to clear the scene. They weren’t even out of the backyard when the doctor arrived. He did a double take when he saw his patient in wolf form, but got Marsten’s wound cleaned and covered, left antibiotics and painkillers, and told me to call if his condition worsened.

The two guards stopped back at the house to let me know everything was cleaned up. They brought something for me, too: my purse, left by Tristan in the van. My bracelet was still in there, as was my wallet. Everything back in order, just as Mr. Cortez had promised.

Marsten was in the living room, on a blanket. I found a second blanket and laid it over him. Yes, he looked kind of ridiculous, a huge wolf on my living room floor with a pink and white knit afghan tucked in around his muzzle. At least I didn’t get him a pillow … though I did consider it.

I stretched out on the sofa above him, intending to keep watch until he woke, but within minutes I was asleep.

I awoke to the sound of running water. I looked down at the floor. Marsten was gone.

“Up here,” he said when I called for him.

I climbed the stairs. He was in the bathroom, with the door open a crack.

I stopped a few paces from the door. “Let me grab your clothes.”

“Found and on. What’s left of them, anyway. Now, if I can just—” He growled. “This bandage fit me better as a wolf.”

“Here, I can—”

I started pushing the door open and stopped, realizing he might not want the help. He kicked it open the rest of the way as he quickly shrugged on his shirt.

“Didn’t peg you as the shy type.” I gestured at the shirt. “I can’t fix your shoulder like that.”

He hesitated, and let the shirt fall off. His chest and upper arms were a loose patchwork of scars. He tensed, as if waiting for me to comment. I grabbed bandages and iodine from the closet and set to work.

“The Cabal sent a doctor over,” I said. “I’m not sure he did a very good job. He didn’t seem to know much about werewolves.”

“No matter. I know someone who does.” He glanced at me. “So I didn’t imagine that, then. You contacted Benicio Cortez.”

I nodded. “That’s all it took. Tristan’s dead, you’re alive, the mess is cleaned up, and Mr. Cortez has promised to look after any fallout. Which, of course, led me to wonder, if you had that number, why didn’t you use it right away. I think I know the answer, but I’m hoping I’m wrong.”

“Probably not,” he murmured.

I looked up at him. “As nice as Mr. Cortez was, I’m guessing he didn’t get where he is by playing Santa Claus. Cleaning this up for us wasn’t a free gift, was it?”

“We owe him. He wouldn’t say that, because it would have been crass, but it’s a chit.” He rubbed his shoulder and adjusted the bandage. “When I turned down Tristan’s offer, Benicio came to me and made one personally. He was much more persuasive—”

“He threatened you?”

Marsten smiled. “Benicio Cortez does not threaten. He knows a lollipop is a better motivator than a swat on the behind. He made me a lucrative offer, and when I respectfully declined, he let it go but gave me that card, in case I ever ‘needed help.’”

“And now I’ve accepted it on your behalf, putting you in his debt.”

“If I hadn’t wanted you to use it, I wouldn’t have told you to. Given the choice between being dead and owing Benicio Cortez, I’ll take the latter, as uncomfortable as it may be. He will eventually call in the chit, but in the meantime, you can go back to your life, including your job at the paper, assuming that’s what you want.”

“It is.” I sat on the edge of the counter. “I’d like to—well, maybe I’m kidding myself thinking I could do anything on my own.”

“You could still monitor and report problems. To the real council this time. They have someone doing something similar, another journalist, and I know she’d love the help.”

When I hesitated, Marsten stepped in front of me, a hand on each side, balancing against the counter. “Take it slow and start there. The only drawback, I’m afraid, would be the pay … or lack of it. The real council isn’t a group of white-haired supernatural philanthropists. Most of the delegates aren’t much older than you, meaning it’s a no-budget operation.”

“That doesn’t matter. I never even wanted Tristan to pay me. I get paid well enough.” I stopped and shrugged. “Well, you know …”

“In chaos dollars.”

My cheeks heated. “I know that sounds awful, helping others because I get something out of it.”

He put his hands on my hips. “You need an outlet. Do you think I don’t understand that?” He reached into his pocket and took out the jewels. “This is mine. A way to get a regular adrenaline shot without ripping apart strangers in alleyways. And with you, it isn’t all about the chaos. You have balance. The good impulses with the bad. Me?” He smiled. “A little more inclined to the latter.” His eyes glinted. “Though not irredeemably so.”

I laughed. “Something tells me that would be a fun but futile challenge.”

“Challenge is good.”

I shook my head. “If you’re happy with what you are, then anyone who wants you would need to accept that.”

He ran his fingertips along my jawline. “Wouldn’t be easy, I’m sure.”

“No, but if you look hard enough, I’m sure you’d find someone willing to try. You know, my mom’s great at finding dates—”

He growled and kissed me. When he pulled back, he ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, as if sampling the kiss.

“The immunity is breaking down,” he murmured. “But still has a ways to go.” He leaned toward me again. “I’d ask if I should stay, but I suspect the answer would be no. So instead I’ll ask whether I can come back.”

I smiled. “Yes, you can come back.”

“Good. Better, actually.”

“Better?”

“Much.”

I laughed and shook my head.

Marsten stepped back. “I should go. I have a doctor to visit and goods to dispose of … not necessarily in that order. And I will make those calls for you, ensure the termination from your old job and the start of your new one proceed smoothly.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” I caught his hand and met his gaze. “I really do, Karl.”

He leaned over for a kiss, little more than a brushing of the lips, but very … nice. He backed up to the door and then stopped.

“I’m too old for you.”

“Too old for what? To come back for a visit?”

A dramatic sigh. He shook his head, and walked out of the bathroom. From the hall I heard a murmured, “I’m going to make a fool of myself.”

“It’ll look good on you,” I called after him.

He chuckled. I smiled and listened to his footsteps recede down the stairs, across the floor, and finally disappear out the back door. Then I took a deep breath. One life gone. Time to reinvent myself—again. Was I up for it?

God, I hoped so.