Storm's Heart

THREE

Tiago tried to figure out how he could have wrecked his life so completely in just a day. One day. Twenty-four hours. Yesterday he had been merely irritated with cooling his heels in New York and doing unimportant stuff that could have been handled by someone—almost anyone—else.

Tonight in Chicago, he had lost all sense of irritation and had become downright desperate.

He paced in the parking lot of another motel, a Red Roof Inn, as he called Dragos, who answered on the first ring. Tiago said, “Got her.”

The dragon let loose a long exhale. “Good.”

“She was wounded. She’s okay, but she needs to see a doctor soon.” He explained what happened, or at least what he had found and what he had surmised, while his long stride ate up the distance of the parking lot.

Glowing streetlamps were surrounded with blurred yellow halos. A light rain had started to fall, miniscule silver meteors streaking through the illumination. Tendrils of fog rose from the sun-warmed asphalt. The tendrils twisted and curled around his steel-toed boots as though he stood in a Gorgon’s nest of transparent snakes.

He stood several feet away from the building and scanned it and the surrounding area with a hypervigilant gaze. The motel building had a couple of floors, rows of identical doors stacked on top of each other. He had secured a ground-floor room that opened directly onto the parking lot, so they could leave in a hurry if they had to. It was late enough that the motel was quiet, and the cars that dotted the parking lot were cool to the touch. He pivoted at the curb to start another lap.

“What do you need?” Dragos asked.

“You should send a cleanup crew to the Motel 6 where she was hiding. Oh, and she said she left a stolen car in a Wal-Mart parking lot. She said she wiped her prints off the steering wheel and car door handle, but she admits she’s been pretty rattled since the attack and hasn’t been thinking very clearly. The car needs to be cleaned and returned to its owner.”

“I’ll get Tucker on it. Hold on.”

He waited while Dragos relayed orders. Then Tiago said, “Dragos, you’ve got to help me get a handle on her before there’s a murder-suicide here. She’s bawling her eyes out. I’m here to tell you, there’s nothing worse to be around than a forlorn faerie.”

Dragos coughed. “Oh-kay. Hold on.”

Tiago’s sharp ears caught Pia in the background, saying, “You’re all Neanderthals, what else did you expect? What, me talk to him? Oh no—” The phone must have exchanged hands. Pia sighed, “Hello, Tiago. I’m so glad you found her. What’s going on?”

Another female. He nodded. Smart. Speaking in rapid sentences, he filled her in. “You’ve got to help me get her to stop crying,” he demanded.

“You just told me she’s drunk,” Pia said. “Don’t you think she’ll stop as she sobers up?”

“That’s not soon enough,” he growled.

“Have you tried talking to her?” Pia asked.

He pulled the phone away from his ear to give it a quick glare. Was that sarcasm in her voice? He said, “Of course I have. I came all this way to help her, and she keeps insisting I go away. She didn’t even want me to look at her wound. What the fuck is that about?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Pia said, “You want me to deal with this in a five-minute conversation.”

He told her in a grim voice, “Does it have to take that long? I’m just looking for a way to survive the night.”

He glanced at the door to their motel room, which he had left cracked open a few inches. He could still hear her crying. The worst of it was how quiet she tried to be, sneaking sobs into her pillow. She probably thought she was hiding it from him. Argh. He wanted to stab something in his ears.

“Alrighty,” Pia said. “Gray and I have been discussing Niniane today since she’s been on all our minds. Did you know she barely escaped with her life when Urien led the coup that slaughtered her family?”

Tiago stopped pacing. His hand tightened on the cell phone. “I knew Urien had killed her family and she had escaped, but I don’t know the details.”

“She was seventeen years old,” Pia said. “Seventeen. Did you know she saw the bodies of her twin brothers, and she watched Urien’s men as they gutted her mother?”

His stomach clenched. Her mother, gutted before her eyes. He wondered how old her brothers had been. How they had been killed. He had to clear the gravel out of his throat before he could reply. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

“So, here’s my five minute fix,” Pia said, her voice soft. “Niniane is under a lot of stress. When she was just a child, a family member, maybe even someone she had cared about and trusted once, slaughtered everyone she loved. Now she’s survived an assassination attempt from yet another family member, and somehow she’s got to find the courage to go back into that palace where she lost everything in the world that mattered to her. So if you tried talking to her in the tone of voice you just used with me, Tiago, I suggest you come back to New York. Any one of the other sentinels would be glad to come take your place. They love her.”

He sucked in a sharp breath. Way to stick a knife in when he wasn’t looking. He stopped pacing and stood rigid. He listened to the roar of denial that had erupted inside when Pia mentioned him being replaced. Fuck if he was going to let that happen.

“Are you still there?”

“I’m here. Hold on,” he growled. He fought his temper, won the struggle for self-control and kept his voice as soft and even as hers. “Nobody else is coming out. I’ve got her, and I will look after her.”

“The right way,” Pia said.

“The right way,” he replied. He sent a grim smile into the halogen-lamp-lit night. “Pia, you’re a bitch. Thank you.”

In the background, Dragos said, “Hey.”

“Ease off, big guy,” Pia said, half muffled. “It was a compliment. At least I think it was.” Her voice came back fully. “Anything else, Tiago?”

He turned to look at the motel door again. “No.”

“Please call if there’s anything we can do.”

“You know I will.” He hung up and pocketed the cell.

Moments later he eased into the room, and shut and locked the door. It was silent inside. Too silent. Was she holding her breath? He stretched his neck to ease tense muscles. Way to screw things up, Dr. Death.

His predator Wyr eyes adjusted quickly to the more intense darkness inside. The room had a king-sized bed, a bland beige decor echoed in motel rooms across the country and no smoking. He had requested that specifically. Niniane was curled under the covers of the bed, her small form scooted to the side closest to the wall, as near to the edge of the bed as she could be without falling off. It was almost like she was wishing she could get as far away from him as possible.

He shook his head and indulged in a little mental ass-kicking. Then he walked over to the bed. He removed his most obtrusive weapons, put them on the bedside table and made sure his Glock was close at hand. All the while he listened.

Yeah, shit. She was definitely holding her breath.

He sighed and eased onto the bed on top of the covers. She was lying on her good side, favoring her left with the knife wound.

She asked, “Did you call ho—New York?”

“Yeah. I talked briefly to Dragos and Pia.”

Her head turned slightly toward him. “I like Pia. We didn’t have very long to get to know each other, but I’m already going to miss her.”

“She likes you too,” he said. He carefully curled around her small, tense body and wrapped an arm around her. She started breathing again. It sounded choppy and uneven. He laid his head on his bent arm and hugged her back against him.

She whispered, “Don’t be nice to me.”

“Why not?” he asked, confused. Didn’t Pia just tell him to be nicer? He tucked his nose in her hair. She had taken out those ridiculous pigtails, and her hair was downy soft and loose. She smelled like cigarettes, herbal shampoo and the unique feminine scent that was all hers, all Tricks. Niniane. Whatever. Niniane was a pretty name, he realized. It suited her.

“When you’re nice, it makes it harder.”

He thought of her tearful good-bye several days ago and the round of fierce hugs she had given everybody, himself included, before she left for the airport. He thought of the seventeen-year-old who had lost everything in the world that had mattered to her, and of the many obstacles in 1809 that one small, hunted Fae girl must have faced in getting safely from Adriyel to sanctuary in the Wyr demesne in New York.

He thought of the recent assassination attempt and how she still intended to go live with the Dark Fae, some of whom might still want to kill her, and all because it was far better to have a good person in power than to risk having another Urien take the throne.

He wanted to rip Urien to pieces all over again.

Her hand kept jerking. He raised his head. After a moment he realized she was plucking at the edges of the bedspread. He wrapped his hand with care around hers, stilling the nervous movement. Her fingers felt small, delicate and cold. She tried to pull away from his touch, but he wouldn’t let go.

“How drunk are you now?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” She sniffed. “I can feel my feet again. My side hurts. Not very, I think.”

She had to be exhausted. He hated that she was in pain. He wanted to offer her medication, but he wasn’t sure what might be safe after she’d downed so much vodka. He told her, “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Her head moved slightly. “’Course it will.”

He didn’t know how she managed to make the perky statement sound so awful. He sighed. “You get some rest now.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“We can talk more on the way to New York,” he told her.

She lifted her head. “What?”

“I said I’m taking you back to New York.” He kept his voice patient since she was obviously still inebriated. “And we can talk more on the way.”

She sighed. “Tiago, I’m not going back.”

“Of course you are,” he said. “Your apartment in the Tower is secure, and we can set up a reliable security detail for you while the attack on you is investigated. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”

He tried to think if there was something else he should say, but he wasn’t Dr. Phil. He was Dr. Death, and he thought he had covered all the important bits. He held her a long time. Funny. He was doing it for her, but it felt pretty damn good to him too. She was curvy and soft, and no bigger than a minute. She fit perfectly in the curl of his body as he spooned with her.

Finally her stiff body went lax and her breathing deepened. She was asleep. He eased away from her, one careful move at a time. She never stirred when he stood.

He picked up the duffle he had set against one wall earlier. It held a toiletry kit and a couple changes of clothing in his size, along with a lightweight laptop in a protective case and extra weapons. He slipped into the bathroom and eased the door shut before he turned on the light.

He stripped and showered. After washing and rinsing, he braced his hands on the shower wall and leaned on them. He stood with his head down as hot water cascaded over his neck and shoulders. The wet heat felt good after his flight from New York, and it soaked into well-used muscles. Water dripped off his nose and chin. What a day.

He should do the smart thing. He should listen to what Pia had said, and call New York to have one of the other sentinels come take his place.

He should go with his troops to their next assignment.

He wasn’t going to do the smart thing.

He was going to do the only thing he could. He was going to stay and make everything okay for Niniane. Because he had promised her that it would be okay. And because he didn’t seem to be able to make any other choice.

He turned off the tap when the hot water started to run lukewarm. After toweling dry, he slipped on a clean pair of black fatigues and a black T-shirt. He switched off the light before he opened the door. He waited a moment for his night sight to return then slipped into the room, placing the duffle back against the wall.

He paused to check for her breathing, expecting the same deep, even rhythm of sleep.

Except there was no breathing, no sense of another living presence.

He flipped on the light.

The room was empty. She was gone. So were her shopping bags. So were the keys to the SUV.

So was his Glock.

Fury erupted. “Goddamn you, Tricks!”

Tiago couldn’t have tortured her with any greater efficacy if he had tried.

Coming after her all the way to Chicago to make sure she was okay. Being all mean and barbaric and sexy.

She could handle that. She had lived with and been vastly entertained by it for two hundred years. All of Dragos’s sentinels were mean and barbaric and sexy. Even that weird harpybitch Aryal, who she might have a teensy girl crush on. You know, in a totally hetero kind of way.

But then Tiago had turned nice. She hadn’t known he had a nice speed. She had thought he had only two speeds, the killing speed and full stop.

The warlord sentinel, being nice to her. It burned her skin as if he had poured acid all over her.

He had come up behind her in the dark. He curled that powerful muscled body of his around her, enclosing her, and made her feel safe and warm and cared for. He caressed her hand like he cared. It made her wild to get away from him.

What was he thinking? Returning to New York was out of question. She couldn’t go running back to the Wyr demesne just because things had gotten a little rough. That would be political suicide. She would look weak and unfit to rule, not just to the Dark Fae but to all the other demesnes as well.

He told her everything was going to be okay. Damn it.

How was everything going to be okay? For how long? For a few days or a few weeks, or for however long he might decide to help her out? Then what?

He would get on with his life, that’s what, and leave her a solitary monarch on the Dark Fae throne. Meanwhile she had a hundred second cousins. No doubt some of them were lawabiding citizens, but she would bet a good number of them were every bit as ambitious as Geril or her uncle Urien had been.

Stupid Wyr. Nothing was okay.

She couldn’t run away to New York. Now that she was no longer drunk or in shock, she knew she couldn’t run anywhere else either. All the news networks had been telling the same basic story by the end of the evening. Human police and Dark Fae authorities were collaborating on getting a major manhunt underway to find her.

She’d had her time-out and a chance to react, and now she had to go back to the Regent and meet up with the Dark Fae delegation. There wasn’t any other realistic option. When she had chosen to go public with her real identity, she had started down a path of no return.

The delegation was a traditional triad that was comprised of three of the most powerful officials of the Dark Fae government. The first was Chancellor Aubrey Riordan, who belonged somewhere on a distant branch of the Lorelle labyrinthine family tree. Aubrey had been old when Niniane had been born and had retired from public office about fifteen years before her family had been massacred. In the late 1950s Urien had brought Aubrey back into government.

Aubrey’s wife, Naida, had been absent from the group that had met Niniane when she arrived in Chicago. Niniane had heard that Naida was quite a bit younger than her husband. Niniane was interested in meeting the other woman. She looked forward to having conversations with someone that weren’t quite so weighted with political considerations.

The second member of the delegation was Commander Arethusa Shiron, who was the current head of Dark Fae military forces. Arethusa was a cold-eyed, silent woman who intimated Niniane just by the force of her presence. The third was Justice Kellen Trevenan. Kellen was a rarity among the elder Dark Fae, for he was so old his hair had turned white.

All three members of the delegation, Aubrey, Arethusa and Kellen, were hardy survivors if nothing else. They had all lived through her father Rhian’s reign. Her father had been a progressive ruler who had embraced change and developing Dark Fae relationships with not only the long-standing American Indian population but the fast-growing number of European settlers that spread across the continent after the American Revolution in the latter part of the eighteenth century.

Then the members of the delegation had weathered the coup that Urien had led against her father. Urien had been the leader of a conservative faction of Dark Fae that opposed Rhian’s open door policies toward the onslaught of new European arrivals.

To the best of Niniane’s knowledge, none of the three in the delegation had actually participated in the coup itself. They had witnessed Urien’s rise to power and the throne. They had not only lived through his segregationist rule, which had isolated Dark Fae society from the rest of the world, but they came to hold positions where they wielded considerable power. Now they were witness to yet another shift in the monarchy.

While she didn’t want to believe they could be involved in what had happened, the fact was, any of them could have been responsible for the attempt on her life, either by acting on their own or in collusion with another. Or they might have had nothing to do with it, and her cousin Geril and his accomplices had acted independently. Or the attack could have been instigated by someone else entirely.

It had been hard enough to face the delegation the first time when she had arrived in Chicago. The thought of facing them now made her gut clench and her palms sweat. The Dark Fae were known for subterfuge and silent political allegiances, and she had been gone for so long, she was a virtual stranger to it all. What she knew of her heritage read like a short encyclopedia entry colored with adolescent emotions and memories. It was an antiquated snapshot, two hundred years out of date, of a culture and a government that was thousands of years old and Byzantine in its convolutions.

A traitorous part of her longed to run back to the only safe haven she had known for centuries, and it wouldn’t stop whining. See, even she thought running back to New York was weak.

She supposed she had been happy there, or at least she had been happy enough. She’d had an adopted family of sorts. They had kept the threat level contained so that she had come to know a measure of contentment, if not peace. Living her life as she had in the confinement of bodyguards and under the constant expectation of attack, she hadn’t ever really felt free; but many people lived their lives under the constant threat of war, and they were far more constricted by poverty and a lack of opportunity than what she had enjoyed. If she hadn’t appreciated the constrictions on her life, still she had known how blessed she had been to have the resources, both in friends and finances, to more than adequately meet her needs and to indulge in a serious shoe addiction.

But no matter how much she might want to go back to New York and hide in the safety of her former life, she couldn’t bring that kind of political tension down on the Wyr, not after they had opened their hearts so generously to her for so long. Dragos had enough on his plate as it was. He was adjusting to having a new, pregnant mate while at the same time contending with the fallout from his trespass into the Elven demesne, along with the potential political repercussions from Urien’s death.

She knew what she had to do. She had to suck it up and go back to the Regent and get on with her sucky life, for however long it lasted. Why was she driving in circles? She couldn’t believe she was being such a flake about this. She hadn’t realized she was so messed up. Her breath shook and her vision blurred. She scrubbed at her eyes.

She came to a halt at a four-way stop sign. She hadn’t felt up to facing the challenge of the strange fast-paced highway that cut past their second motel, so she had turned instead into a residential area. Modest houses with well-kept shrubbery dotted tree-lined streets that were ribboned with pale strips of sidewalk. Most of the houses were dark and quiet.

She adored neighborhoods like this. They were so exotic. Whole families lived in these houses. The parents went to work, and the children climbed into yellow buses and went to school. They shared suppers together as loads of laundry wrinkled in clothes dryers. (Imagine washing your own laundry. What fun!)

Sometimes at Christmas she would slip into neighborhoods just like this one. She would walk along the streets and peer into windows at family and holiday gatherings, and marvel at the shiny gold, crimson and green decorated trees covered with tinsel and twinkling colored lights, while she wondered what it must be like to experience the beauty of such an ordinary, unattainable life.

The light rain from earlier in the evening had grown heavier. She looked over the readings on the dashboard of the SUV as she searched for the windshield wiper switch. Wow, this was a really nice SUV. A hybrid. She only understood half of what the dashboard told her. The clock read 3:32 A.M.

By now Tiago was hot on her trail and breathing fire. She could practically feel him coming up behind her. The tiny hairs at the back of her neck rose. The air felt charged, full of static.

Hey, maybe she should stop to get some breakfast. If she was already in a restaurant, he couldn’t yell at her so much, could he? Besides, it would be rude if she showed up at the Regent before dawn with a furious Wyr sentinel in tow. She would wake people up and cause a ruckus.

She accelerated when it was her turn and looked for a driveway that she could use to turn the SUV around. She remembered seeing an IHOP restaurant about a half a mile back. Gorging on pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream might make her feel better and solve all her problems. Okay, so that seemed like it was a long shot, but she was willing to give it a try.

A violent wind rose from one block to the next. It whipped through the surrounding trees. Lightning speared the air. White light burned a jagged path across her retinas as it struck a tree. The accompanying thunderclap was like the explosion of a roadside bomb. The concussion assaulted her eardrums and shook the body of the vehicle. She startled so badly she almost lost control of the SUV.

Then not twenty yards in front of her a gigantic bird of prey with a thirty-foot wingspan plummeted down. For one split second he was caught full in the headlights of the SUV, enormous wings splayed high in the air and razorlike sword-long talons outstretched. He was shaped like a golden eagle, but his color was a dark sooty black.

Lightning flashed in those great fierce eyes. Thunder roared as he changed in midair and landed as a massive hawk-faced man in black fatigues and combat boots. He strode toward her, rage carving his body into a hard-edged weapon.

She shrieked and slammed on the brakes. She hit them too hard and the vehicle went into a skid. Tiago leaped forward. His hands slammed like twin sledgehammers into the edge of the hood.

He stopped the SUV dead.

She sat frozen as she stared at him, her mouth open. The fancy hybrid engine bawled a complaint and stalled.

Tiago came around to the driver’s side and yanked the door open. He gripped the edge of the roof with both hands and glared at her. He was already soaked. She watched with eyes gone huge and round as a drop of water slid down one lean, hard cheek where a muscle twitched.

The knife wound had hurt too much for her to put on the seat belt. Wincing, she swiveled with care to face him. The rain pelted her bare legs and arms.

Maybe it was time to get cute. Her lower lip stuck out and her forehead wrinkled. In a small uncertain voice, she said, “Sowwy?”

If anything, that seemed to make him angrier. Worse, he looked offended. He snarled, “Don’t pull that manipulative sex kitten shit on me.”

She shrank back, her eyes crinkled in worry. “But what if I am a manipulative sex kitten shit?”

His grip on the car roof accentuated his heavy arm and chest muscles. He was breathing hard. His lightning-filled gaze fell, and he stilled.

She looked down. When she escaped from the motel room, she had figured stealth and speed were more important than getting dressed, so she was still in the camo shorty-shorts and midriff T-shirt. The rain had quickly soaked her front as well. Her nipples had puckered in the chill wet and were quite visible underneath her thin sports bra and shirt.

She looked up again into his dangerous face and said, “That’s not my fault. I’m just sayin’.”

He shoved his head and shoulders into the vehicle as he captured her by the back of the neck. His open mouth drove down onto hers. He was digging deep inside her mouth with his tongue before she fully knew what happened.

She made a sound, a whimper of surprise that he swallowed and gave back to her in a throaty growl that raised goose bumps along her bare arms and legs. The force of his kiss pushed her head back against his hand as he gripped the nape of her neck. She was trapped between his hand and his mouth. Her hands fluttered. She clutched at the front of his soaked T-shirt.

His kiss was brutal, ravenous, but his grip on her was gentle. He slid an arm around her waist and eased her forward until she perched on the side of the seat. He held her in place, an arm locked at her waist and a hand at her nape, as he nudged between her legs and slid the massive bulk of his long torso flush against hers. All the while he speared into the depths of her mouth and ate at plump lips that had gone soft in amazement.

The taste and texture of him was a shocking assault to her senses, the cold rain slippery on hot, aggressive lips. His jeans felt rough against the tender skin on the inside of her thighs, and a hard swollen length pressed against her pelvis. She felt his body move as he sucked in air. He was huge everywhere, his body over twice her size.

She couldn’t have stopped him if she’d tried.

She didn’t want to try. She relaxed in his hold, trusting her body to the solid support he offered. She tilted up her head to him, eyes closed to the rain, and she kissed him back with all the starved passion she had stored up inside.

Tiago felt the tension in her body melt away as her ripe, wicked little mouth and eager tongue worked under the onslaught of his. The surrender of her body was so damn erotic he almost came in his fatigues.

Fucking hell. He fell into a tailspin.

What the hell was he doing?

She’s been hurt. Careful, no frenzy allowed. She suckled at his tongue as he thrust in her, and her slender white legs wrapped around his waist. Okay, maybe a little frenzy. He groaned and rubbed the hard length of his erection against the sweet welcoming arc of her pelvis. He wanted to palm those beautiful breasts of hers and tongue that gold ring at her navel. He wanted to spread her out and feast on her with the intensity of a starving man.

Delicate fingers dug into his short wet hair. He felt the tiny prick of fingernails in his scalp like kitten claws. He wanted them raking down his naked back. He wanted her to draw blood as she screamed and climaxed in his arms. Her breath came in jagged spurts. She was burning up, but violent shivers began to shake through her small frame.

Sanity bulldozed its way into his thick skull. He dragged his mouth away from hers with a harsh gasp, tilting his head up to the rain as he tucked her face into his neck. “Goddammit,” he hissed. “I’m sorry.”

“Of course you are,” she muttered. “Not one single thing has gone right for me today. Why should this be any different?”

He glared down at the top of her head. What the hell did she mean by that?

She pushed her nose into the hollow where his neck met his shoulder as her trembling increased. Too many things were happening in her body. The knife wound felt like it was on fire. She was so hot yet freezing at the same time. Weakness invaded her limbs, and the sharp, empty ache between her thighs had crazy thoughts running through her head, like how easy it would be to unzip his fatigues and take that swollen, hard cock in her hand. Like how much she wanted to explore the strange sensual terrain of his flesh and pump him until he spilled all over her. Her breath hitched.

Headlights swept over them as a car approached. He scooped her out of the driver’s seat, carried her around and deposited her in the passenger’s seat. Then he strode back, climbed in the driver’s side and started the SUV so that he could park it by the side of the road. The engine was already warm, so he turned the heater on full blast before he turned to her again.

She was a bedraggled mess. The manipulative sex kitten had turned into a half-drowned rat. Her black hair glittered wet and sleek against the graceful curve of her skull, and those gorgeous erect nipples of hers, God help him, were dark raised pebbles underneath that porno T-shirt. She was shaking visibly. Grinding his teeth, he leaned past her to reach for one of the shopping bags she had thrown onto the passenger’s seat floor. Not caring what he grabbed, he pulled out an item of clothing and began to stroke her wet bare arms and legs with it.

She muttered, “I had this whole thing going a lot differently in my head.”

“I hardly dare to ask,” he said. His white teeth bit at the air.

“For one thing, I was going to retain control of the car,” she said. Her teeth chattered. She pushed his hand away. “There you go, being nice again. Stop it.”

“What, you prefer abuse?” he growled. “That can be arranged. Just keep pushing at me, faerie.”

“Pushing you.” She snorted a laugh. “Don’t tempt me. You haven’t even seen me get started.”

He cocked a sleek, sardonic eyebrow at her. “I’m actually afraid you might be right about that.”

She grabbed the sweatpants from his hand and began to dry herself off. The material was thick and absorbent. She would have shrugged and slipped them on except she thought the twist of movement needed to pull them over her hips would hurt too much. Instead, she dug one of the T-shirts out of the bag.

Tiago’s hands came over hers.

“I know you’re hurting,” he said, dropping his bad-tempered attitude for the moment. He had a powerful battlefield voice, deep and rich and penetrating, but now it was throttled down to just a dark murmur that was so gentle it shook her soul. “Let me help you.”

He was right; she was hurting, and she was still trembling like a leaf. She bit her lips and nodded. He eased the shirt on, guiding the arm on her injured side. She managed to say, “Thank you.”

“Where were you going, anyway?” he asked.

“I want pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream.” She sniffed as she spread the sweatpants over her lap for the warmth.

“You left to get breakfast.” The flatness of his voice and the cynical expression on his harsh features said he didn’t believe her.

She rolled her eyes. She told him, “I left to get away from you.”

“You must still be drunk if you thought you could give me the slip,” he snapped. “You didn’t have a chance in hell.”

Well, no. She opened her eyes very wide. “I got your car and your gun when you weren’t looking, didn’t I?”

He clearly didn’t like what he heard, if his scowl was any indication. His glare could peel paint. What the hell was the matter with her? She was needling a pissed-off thunderbird, for God’s sake.

She groped for some sanity and told him, “Look, running back to New York is not an option. I don’t have the energy to keep arguing with you about it. Will you just buy me some breakfast at IHOP and then take me back to the Regent?”

His attention shifted away from her as she spoke. His gaze narrowed on the car that had just passed them. The car’s brake lights came on, shining bright red in the rainy night.

“What did you do with the Glock?” he asked. His face, voice, body remained calm.

Her stomach gave a sickened lurch. She dug into a shopping bag and put the gun into his outstretched hand. The car that had captured Tiago’s attention reversed with a sharp squeal of tires.

Tiago was already exiting the SUV. He moved so fast he was a blur. He said to her telepathically, Lock the doors and get down on the floor. NOW, Tricks.

“Dr. Death” wasn’t just a nickname she had made up on the spot. It was what the other Wyr sentinels called Tiago behind his back. He was a killing machine quick to anger and fueled by immense Power.

She had years of experience working with the Wyr sentinels whenever the threat level warranted she should have a detail of bodyguards. She knew when to fight, when to run away and when to get out of the way.

She wasn’t a very old faerie and she wasn’t all that Powerful. The low-level Power she did have was barely enough to cross over to an Other land or to achieve telepathy, which anyone, Elder Race or human, could do if they had a spark of magic. She also had a delicate sprinkle of charisma that gave her an edge sometimes in negotiations and knotty social gatherings, but it was worth squat in a combat situation. She had a small, light build, and now she was wounded. Her self-defense abilities were all artifice and had very little to do with natural aptitude.

She owed everything she knew to years of determined, patient training by the sentinels. Sure, she could kick ass, but she generally preferred for someone’s back to be turned when she did so. Using poison on her stilettos was just another way to level a very uneven playing field. This was not a time for her to fight. This was a time for her to do as she was told and keep out of the way.

She locked the doors and pulled herself into a compact package on the passenger’s seat floor, arms over her head. Her knife wound gave a throb so vicious it seemed to shoot to her spine. She could feel a gush of warmth against her chilled skin as it started bleeding again. It was the least of her worries at the moment.

She hated this part, hated it when someone she cared about put his life on the line for her. No matter how many times she went through it, it never got easier.

“Be okay,” she whispered to Tiago. “Be safe.”

That was when the shooting started.