Otherworld Chills

1. NICK

When Nick Sorrentino’s alarm went off at 5 a.m., he bolted upright, certain it was his phone ringing, some emergency unfolding. Five years ago, he would have figured it’d be Elena or Clay with a Pack problem. These days, his first thought was “the boys.” Reese or Noah was in trouble and needed his help. Or they’d been out drinking and needed a lift. Even with werewolves, the second was more likely, particularly if the werewolves in question were twenty-two and nineteen.

But it wasn’t a phone call—it was the alarm. Why the hell would he set it for 5 a.m.? It must have been one of the boys, playing a sadistic …

As he reached to shut the phone off, he realized it wasn’t on the nightstand. Well, yes, it was, but there was an obstacle in between him and it. A woman.

She groaned, fumbled for his phone, and handed it to him.

Right. That was why he’d set the alarm. He needed to get home in time to take Noah to school because Noah had been forbidden to use his car, which was, Nick had to admit, turning out to be more of a punishment for him.

At least he’d had the presence of mind to set the alarm. That alone was an accomplishment, given that he hadn’t decided he wasn’t heading home until he’d been in the back of a cab, with Jacinda undoing his zipper. Maybe it was a sign that he’d really had one too many women go down on him in the back of a taxi if he could still pause to think, Huh, I should set my alarm. That, or he was getting old.

“Are you going to turn that off?” It was a woman’s voice … but didn’t sound like Jacinda. Nick turned his head to see her friend, Heidi, curled up on his other side. Right. Huh. Well, maybe he wasn’t that old yet.

He shut off the alarm. Then he checked his e-mail, making sure he didn’t have an angry message from Frank Russell. Russell was the client he’d taken out last night on a double date with Jacinda and Heidi. Nick looked from one woman to the other. Not the way a double date was supposed to work.

He did have an e-mail from Russell, but it only thanked him for the evening out and asked for Heidi’s phone number. Russell had apparently left with Heidi, but he said that she’d had an emergency and taken off. Which must have been when she’d hopped into the cab with Nick and Jacinda, just before it pulled away from the curb. At least Russell hadn’t figured that out.

Nick climbed over Jacinda and started pulling on his trousers. Heidi rolled from bed and stumbled into the bathroom.

“Where are you rushing off to?” Jacinda asked as she watched him dress. “You never start work before nine, which means we have plenty of time for another round. Or two.”

She tugged back the covers, showing him what was on offer. It was, he had to admit, a very nice offer. Tempting, though? Well, that was the problem. Ten years ago he would have already been back in that bed. Now, though, he felt only an answering twitch in his groin and a spark of regret.

“I’d love to,” he said. “But I need to take Noah to school, and it’s an hour drive home.”

“The kid has his license, Nick. He even has a car.”

“He lost his privileges. He drove after having a beer.”

“A beer? One?”

Nick pulled on his shirt. “That’s the rule.”

“Since when do you follow rules?”

Since always, he could say. Maybe not the ones most of society lived by—grow up, get a job, marry, have kids—but he obeyed the laws of his kind, of his Pack. Imposing them on Noah was as important as sticking to them himself, no matter how inconvenient.

“If I set out a punishment, I need to follow through with it.”

Jacinda shook her head. “I’m not sure I like this new Nick. The old, irresponsible one was a whole lot more fun.”

“Could have sworn you had fun last night. Or maybe that was just Heidi.”

She gave him a smile for that. “Okay. But still, taking in those cousins? And going to work every day? That’s not the Nick I knew.”

“I haven’t been that Nick in years, Jace.”

“I know, but it’s getting worse. How long has it been since you called me? I’m beginning to think I might need to bring a friend more often, just to keep you interested.”

He bent to kiss her. “You know better than that. Adding Heidi to the mix was your idea. I’m just flexible and accommodating.”

“You are indeed.”

She caught his hand and pulled him closer. Her other hand went to his waistband, but he peeled her fingers off.

“Don’t tempt me, Jace. I really do need to leave.”

He gave her a last quick kiss and started for the door.

“Were you even planning to come back?” she asked.

He glanced over his shoulder at her.

“Last night,” she said. “Before I jumped you in the cab, were you even planning to come back to my place?”

“If you wanted me to,” he said, which was the truth, even if it didn’t quite answer the question. “Get some more sleep. I’ll call you.”

“Soon?”

He hesitated. He could lie and say yes. Most guys would. But that was never how he’d done things.

“I’ll call when I can,” he said, and slipped out the door.

As Nick drove home, he left a voice mail with his admin assistant to say he might be late. He worked for his father at the family business, which just happened to be a multinational corporation. Nick’s corner of it was small, by choice. There was no way in hell he could run a business like that—he had neither the aptitude nor the interest.

Nick’s niche was graphic design and client services. He had an eye for what worked and an unerring instinct for knowing what people wanted. It wasn’t a cutthroat ability to pander and manipulate, but a genuine desire to please.

When he disconnected, his phone pinged with a text message for an entirely different sort of business. Pack business.

Nine months ago, Elena had become Pack Alpha. At almost the same time, they had discovered that a long-dead member was actually very much alive. Between shifting Pack dynamics, regular Pack business, and raising six-year-old twins, Elena and Clay had little time to search for Malcolm. Nick had offered to do it.

Malcolm Danvers. Estranged father of Jeremy Danvers, the former Alpha. Nick remembered Malcolm well. And not fondly. No one remembered Malcolm fondly. They weren’t searching for him to welcome him back. They needed to find and kill him. Preferably before Jeremy found out he hadn’t already been dead for twenty years, as they had thought.

Werewolves are, by nature, violent sons of bitches, as Clay would say. Clay had been bitten at the age of five, rescued and brought up by Jeremy. The first time Nick met him, Clay knocked him flying. His way of saying hello … and establishing dominance.

Nick didn’t have much use for dominance. He was happier obeying orders than giving them. Except now that his best friends led the Pack, he’d realized it was time for him to step up and do more. Hence offering to handle the hunt for Malcolm.

A hunt like this wasn’t Nick’s area of expertise. While he was a fine fighter, he didn’t feel the usual drive to hunt, to protect territory, to fight for his place. Elena teased he satisfied that urge in his romantic pursuits, yet the truth was that he didn’t really pursue there, either. Like hunting, he enjoyed it and he’d rarely turn down an opportunity, but it wasn’t a driving force in his life.

Malcolm was different. He’d always pursued fights and women with equal vigor. And with the same ferocity. Women were prizes to be conquered and then discarded. Or worse. Nick’s grandfather, Dominic, had believed Malcolm killed Jeremy’s mother. Not that the old Alpha had turned him out of the Pack for it. Malcolm was too good a fighter to lose over a dead woman. Another Pack, another time.

Now, Malcolm was back and very much alive. And finding him was Nick’s job.

2. NICK

Nick left his car in the drive, and stopped on the front porch to text Noah and ask if he was ready. He could just open the front door and holler, but these days, text messaging seemed the way to go, even within the walls of your own home. Given that the walls of that house encompassed ten thousand square feet of living space, Nick had to admit that hollering from the front door wasn’t practical, no matter how good a werewolf’s hearing.

It was a massive house, on a huge chunk of property, sixty miles north of New York City. And yes, an estate that size within commuting distance did bring the occasional enterprising real estate agent to the gate on behalf of some billionaire or other. You had to be a billionaire to afford property like this. Or you had to have family who’d bought it three hundred years ago when they emigrated from Italy. The house had been rebuilt twice in the interim, but it was an ancestral home. A communal home, too. That was how werewolves lived, all generations under one roof. For years it had been just Nick and his father, Antonio. Now there were the boys, Reese and Noah.

Reese and Noah were permanent residents. A third young werewolf—Morgan Walsh—made it his home base. Morgan was older than the other two, and even more skittish about settling in, particularly into someone else’s home. Morgan was on one of his walkabouts, this time staying with the Russian Pack for a few months. He’d be back, though, and was already hinting about finding work in New York and “renting” a room at the house. Rent wasn’t necessary. If it made him feel less awkward, though, they’d take it. Young werewolves needed a Pack, but they needed a family and a home, too.

When Nick opened the door, Reese greeted him. Coffee in hand, bleary-eyed, Reese looked as if he hadn’t gotten a moment’s sleep. He hadn’t. Reese would have just gotten in after a night shift at one of the family factories. His choice—Antonio would never make his dependents work for a living, as Nick well knew. Reese was studying for his MBA and in the meantime he wanted to learn the business from the ground up. Which included working night shift at a factory. Nick didn’t interfere, even if he would like to see the young man be a little less mature and responsible, enjoy his youth.

Nick plucked the coffee from Reese’s hand. “Thank you.”

“Uh, that was mine.”

“I know. But you should be heading to bed, which means you do not need caffeine. I do.” Nick leaned into the next room. “Noah!”

“He’s coming. Slowly, as usual. He said you stayed in the city. You should have texted me. I’d have given him a lift to school. No need to end your date early.”

“I had to come home and change anyway.”

Reese lifted one eyebrow. “Um, no. You keep a bag in your car.”

“I took it out last time we went to Stonehaven.”

“That was a month ago.”

Nick shrugged. “I forgot to put it back in.”

Reese stared as if Nick had left behind his cell phone for a month. As Nick walked into the kitchen, Noah came around the corner, running his hand through his hair. That, along with brushing his teeth, constituted his idea of proper grooming.

“Are we shaving today?” Nick asked as Noah grabbed an apple.

“You can. I can go another day.”

Nick couldn’t argue. Noah did only need it a few times a week. He didn’t look nineteen. Or eighteen, which was his official age, the Pack having aged his ID down a year when they’d taken him in, to help him catch up, academically and otherwise.

Nick could say Noah just took after his father. Joey Stillwell had grown up with Nick and Clay, and he’d always been small, always looked young, even for a werewolf. With Noah, though, there were other problems. Namely an alcoholic mother who hadn’t stopped drinking during her pregnancy. Add in a rough life with a brutal stepdad and Joey almost out of the picture, and you ended up with a whole slew of issues, not just delayed maturity but learning problems and a hair-trigger temper. The last two had much improved since Noah came to live with them, but there was nothing that could be done about the first. At least Noah had finally started his Changes a few months ago, which helped.

“So I guess your date went well,” Noah said, brows waggling as he took a bite of his apple.

“Do Nick’s dates ever not go well?” Reese said, reaching for a banana. “How about Russell? Did his date go well, too?”

Nick hesitated. He didn’t mean to—Reese wasn’t fishing—but it took him a second to think up an answer that wasn’t an actual lie. That second was all Reese needed.

“Ah,” Reese said. “Russell’s date went home alone.”

Again, Nick wasn’t nearly quick enough. Or maybe a flicker of guilt gave him away.

Reese burst out laughing. “Whoa, no, his date did not go home alone. Was it a trade-up? Or did you take double dating to a whole new level?”

“Noah?” Nick said. “Where’s your knapsack?”

“What?” Noah looked from Nick to Reese as Reese sputtered with laughter. “What do you mean, take double dating …?” His eyes widened. “No … You mean …?”

“I mean get your knapsack,” Nick said. “Reese needs his sleep. These night shifts are making him giggly.”

“So you …? Both? How …? I mean, how does that come up? You ask if they’re game?”

Nick could ignore the question. But that wasn’t his policy with the boys. Ask him anything. That was how Antonio raised Nick. It also meant never ignoring the opportunity to pass along a lesson or advice.

“No,” Nick said. “It has to be their idea. Otherwise there’s going to be hurt feelings afterward.”

“Uh-huh,” Noah said. “So you wait for women to offer you a threesome? Outside of porn flicks, in what world does that actually happen?”

“In Nick’s world,” Reese said. “Which can bear a marked resemblance to a porn flick. Kind of a James Bond high-end porn-flick crossover.”

“No kidding,” Noah muttered. “I bet if his car broke down, he’d knock on the nearest door and find sex-starved college girls having an orgy.”

“Of course not,” Reese said. “In the Nick version, it’s classy grown women holding a Tupperware party, which turns into an orgy after he arrives.”

“Okay, ha-ha,” Nick said. “Are you going to school today, Noah?”

Noah found his knapsack. Nick had to remind him to actually put his homework in it, but five minutes later they were off and Reese was headed to bed.

As they walked out the door, Noah said, “So, um, not that I’m likely to ever need it, but do you have any advice on threesomes? Like what to do, what not to do, and how not to piss one of the girls off. Are there guidelines?”

“There are.”

“And you’ll tell me?”

“Yes,” Nick said. “When you’re twenty-one.”

“What? There’s an age restriction?”

“Yes. It’s twenty-one. Before that, it would just be awkward and messy. Get in the car.”

At two that afternoon, Nick was driving across town. Very slowly, as one usually drove across New York on a weekday. Normally he’d have called a driver, but the instructions from Rhys Smith’s security team had been clear. Use your own car. Bring no one with you. He hadn’t even been given directions until he was on the road.

All very cloak-and-dagger, which would amuse the hell out of Reese after his James Bond joke. The truth was, Nick’s life resembled that of the international spy only superficially. Yes, he had no problems with women. Yes, he had money and knew how to dress, what to drive, and so on. He could hold his own in a fight or a car chase. But when it came to true espionage, he left that to the experts. Which is what he’d done with the search for Malcolm.

When Elena and Clay learned Malcolm was alive, they’d known exactly where to find him. In Nast Cabal custody, where he’d apparently been for the last decade, serving a prison term as a thug or an assassin—whatever use they had for a psychotic werewolf. Malcolm was a prize, and they’d kept him under the tightest security. So he should have been there when Elena negotiated for his return. Except he wasn’t. Elena and Clay had seen Malcolm while he was being escorted from his cell … and while the entire Cabal building was in chaos, after the CEO had been murdered. After they parted, it seemed Malcolm seized an opportunity, murdering his guards to escape.

Finding out Malcolm was alive had been bad enough. Alive, free, and knowing that Clay would come after him? That was a challenge Malcolm wouldn’t ignore. He would be biding his time, waiting for the Pack to lower its guard. Then he’d go after someone—Jeremy, Elena, the kids—to preempt Clay’s attack.

All this meant they couldn’t just keep their ears to the ground and wait for Malcolm to surface. They needed to pull in whatever resources they could. For Nick, that meant hiring Rhys Smith’s team of supernatural mercenaries.

Rhys’s team had been on the job for two months. A guy named Ness was in charge of Nick’s case. Though Nick had met a couple of the agents actually tracking Malcolm, he’d only communicated with Ness by text and e-mail. Now Ness was in New York and had an update for him. He wanted to meet face-to-face to discuss it.

The directions led to a motel. As he pulled in, he had to text again for “final instructions,” which turned out to be a room number. He was told to park in front of the room. He did … eventually. First, he pulled into the restaurant lot next door and left his car between two rigs, while he slipped out and checked behind the motel room. There was a man there, not visibly armed, though Nick was sure he had a gun tucked under his jacket. Rhys’s agents didn’t rely on their supernatural powers alone.

Nick got downwind enough to catch the guy’s scent. An ID check of sorts. It was no one Nick recognized, so he just filed the information.

Next he checked the front of the motel. A guy sat in a pickup reading a map. He’d been reading it since Nick drove in. Another operative.

Nick returned to his car, parked in front of the proper room, and walked to the door.

3. NICK

When Nick knocked, a man opened the motel room door. Mid-forties. Trim. Well dressed. This, Nick presumed, was Ness. Yet no introduction was offered. The man brought him inside, and Nick noticed a second possibility—a fifty-something guy with a slight paunch.

There was a third person in the room. A woman. All Nick could see of her was her ass. He wasn’t complaining, though. It was a very nice ass, a perfectly rounded curve under a pencil skirt as she bent over a table, writing. There were legs, too, even if they weren’t the first thing he noticed. Black nylons with seams running down shapely calves. Black heels, high enough to be sexy, but not impractically so. And there was hair, dark, curling waves tumbling almost to the desk as she wrote.

The first man cleared his throat. Nick thought he’d been caught ogling, but the guy only seemed to be getting his colleague’s attention. The woman finished what she was doing, straightened, and turned, and the view didn’t get any worse. She wasn’t young—maybe late thirties. She wasn’t classically beautiful, either, but it would have been almost a disappointment if she’d been twenty and gorgeous. This was far more interesting—a striking mature woman with the body of a ’40s pinup.

She extended a hand and walked over. “Vanessa.”

It took a moment for him to make the connection, and mentally kick himself for his presumption.

“Ness?” he said.

She smiled. “Yes, but in person, it’s Vanessa, please.”

They shook hands.

“Normally these guys would give you a pat-down, but considering what you are, you don’t need a weapon to kill me. So I think we can skip that part.”

She dismissed the two men, who left to stand guard outside. Vanessa waved Nick to a table with two chairs. He took one. As he sat, she flipped through a sheaf of pages.

“I’m sorry to call you in on such short notice,” she said, “but I was in town on business, and there’s been a break in your case. It seemed like a good opportunity for us to meet, rather than send another agent to update you.”

“Thank you.”

“You have been pleased with the agents I sent to update you, though, haven’t you?”

She continued flipping pages, her gaze down, but there was a note in her voice that made Nick tense.

“I know they were pleased with you,” she said before he could answer. “Very pleased.”

Now Nick intentionally didn’t reply, waiting and gauging her voice, her posture.

Vanessa lowered herself into the remaining chair. “I’m wondering if there’s a specific type you’d like me to send next time, Mr. Sorrentino. Blonde? Redhead? Brunette?”

Shit.

She continued. “I debrief my agents after they meet a client. They don’t hold anything back. Whatever happened regarding a mission I hear about it.”

Nick straightened. “I don’t know what Jayne told you, but I can assure you, I did not take advantage—”

“Oh, I know. It was mutual. There’s no question of that. I’m just curious how I could send you two of my best, most professional agents, and you manage to have sex with both.”

“I didn’t have sex with Tina.”

“No?”

He tried not to squirm. “Technically, no. There was … intimacy. But she offered.”

Vanessa stared at him. “During a client information meeting? How does that work? She updates you on the case and then offers you a parting blow job?”

“There were a few steps in between.”

“I should hope so.”

The words sounded shocked, but her dark eyes glittered with barely contained laughter, leaving Nick feeling like a cheerleader who’s been caught screwing half the football team.

Nick cleared his throat. “If there was a complaint—”

“Far from it. Both agents are eager—very eager—to work with you again.”

“Then if I’ve broken some code of client conduct—”

“If you have, it wasn’t one you were informed of. There’s no issue with your behavior, Mr. Sorrentino.”

He met her gaze. “Then why are we having this conversation?”

She blinked. Silence fell, and now she was the one who looked uncomfortable, as if she’d been called out for gossiping about the cheerleader.

Nick continued. “If there is a problem with my behavior, I apologize. Either way, it will not happen again. Can we move on to my case?”

Vanessa updated him on his case. Nick kept the meeting coolly professional, and she followed suit. She told him what they’d been doing, and he asked questions. All business.

“The main reason I called you here is to tell you we’re following up on a rumor that Malcolm was spotted in Detroit,” Vanessa said. “We heard he’d made contact with a half-demon there, someone he’d worked with at the Nast Cabal.”

“And the reliability of this rumor, on a scale of one to ten?”

“Eight.”

Until now, Nick had been only half processing. The update had seemed like mere customer service, making sure the client knows you’re using his money well.

“Give me the details on this half-demon,” Nick said. “Name. Bio. Address. I can be in Detroit tonight.”

“There’s no need for that. I’ve sent Tina. Once she has visual confirmation of Malcolm Danvers, she’ll report back.”

“That’s not what we agreed on. I said—”

“Yes, I know what you said, and I was told not to argue the point. I did not, however, agree to it. You hired us to find Malcolm Danvers. Once we have accomplished that, he’s all yours. But it’s our job to confirm it.”

“And as the client, I’m relieving you of that responsibility. I have the right—”

“No, I’m afraid you don’t, Mr. Sorrentino. The contract states that we will provide confirmation.”

Nick folded his hands on the table. “I am asking you to reconsider. I would insist, but I would prefer to ask. I’m sure Tina’s a good agent, but Malcolm is unlike any targets she’s had.”

“Tina successfully tracked a werewolf on a mission in Germany. That’s why she’s on this case. She is prepared.”

“For a werewolf. Not for Malcolm Danvers. He’ll be on to her before she gets visual confirmation. He was the best fighter in the North American Pack—”

“Was. Past tense. Very past. Malcolm is eighty-five, Mr. Sorrentino. Yes, I know werewolves age slowly, but he’s an old man.”

“No, he’s not. The Nasts were experimenting with cryogenic freezing. Elena says he doesn’t look much older than Jeremy. So shave off twenty years for that. Shave another twenty for a werewolf’s delayed aging.”

She leaned back, and he could tell she was mentally calling bullshit on the cryogenics. Just as Rhys had. The Nasts were denying it, and even among supernaturals, cryogenics was a little too Star Wars.

“I said Malcolm was the best fighter in his time,” Nick continued. “These days that title goes to Clayton Danvers. Who faced Malcolm nine months ago. Clay would be the first to say it was a real fight. A real challenge.”

“Clayton had just finished dispatching a dozen Cabal security officers. He wasn’t in top condition. The only person Malcolm had fought that day was Elena, who bested him before Clayton arrived.” Vanessa picked up her file and pretended to leaf through it. “I’m sure that’s the story you provided in our intake session. Elena turned Malcolm over to Clayton. They faced off. Clayton won, but he was interrupted by the arrival of the guards. That’s why you hired us. Not because Clayton couldn’t kill him, but because he missed his chance.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that two werewolves fought Malcolm and both agree he’s not a doddering old man—”

“We don’t expect him to be. But you hired us for a job, Mr. Sorrentino. I’m going to ask you to let us finish it.”

“If Tina goes after Malcolm, he will see her coming. If he sees her coming, he will kill her.”

“I disagree.”

“And you’re willing to stake your agent’s life on it?”

“She’s not going to confront him. We’ve established a fifty-yard guideline. Once she receives visual confirmation and provides photographic evidence, Malcolm Danvers is yours. Until then, we have a contract to complete.”

Nick called Elena on his speakerphone. She was in her own car, on her way to get the twins from school.

“I could go over her head,” he said when he finished filling her in. “But I’m not sure Rhys would do anything about it.”

“He won’t,” she said. “If she’s blocking you, it’s on his orders. Rhys might think he’s above stereotyping werewolves as dumb brutes, but he’s sure we have a little too much confidence in our ability to kick the ass of any other supernatural. He thinks we’re an insular group, distrustful of others, and so we’ll want to wrest back control the moment we can.” She paused and he heard her turn signal click as she took a corner. “All of which isn’t exactly untrue. But in this case, we’re not exaggerating the danger. We’ll never convince him of that, though.”

“So, your advice …?”

“If they want to take the risk, we have to trust that they know what they’re doing. They could even be right. Malcolm is the Pack’s bogeyman. Maybe we’ve built him up more than he deserves. You warned them. Now we hang tight and pray they don’t screw this up and lose him.”

An uncomfortable pause as tension zinged along the line, and Nick pictured Elena fighting the impulse to add, “Are you okay with that?” She was Alpha, which meant this wasn’t a democracy. Her word was law. Which was fine with Nick. Elena struggled with it.

“Works for me,” he said, and she gave a soft sigh of relief.

“So, otherwise, what’s up there?” he asked, and they spent the rest of their mutual drives talking.

4. VANESSA

Vanessa Callas had a routine. Once her niece headed to her room to study, Vanessa mixed a gimlet, drew a steaming hot bath, lit a candle, and settled in with a book. Tonight, it was past nine and she was sitting in her hotel room, cell phone by her elbow, trying not to gaze longingly at her novel and the hotel bar menu. The candle she’d brought from home sat on the table. She put her finger to the wick, using her Aduro powers to light it, and then snuffed it out. Lit it. Snuffed it again.

She was waiting for two calls. One anticipated; one dreaded. The anticipated one was from Tina. After Nick Sorrentino left, she’d phoned and told Tina to take the night off. She was sending in Jayne tomorrow, and the two could tag-team confirmation on Malcolm Danvers. Tina hadn’t been pleased, but she’d promised to call once she was checked into her hotel. That had been an hour ago.

The dreaded one was from Rhys. She was sure Nick had contacted him the moment he got out the door. Nick would complain, and the boss would be pissed. Not because Rhys wanted her handing the case over to Nick. He was the one who’d forbidden it.

“If it was Elena or Clayton, sure,” he’d said. “They’re used to handling situations like this. But Nick? He’s used to helping them handle situations like this. Outside the Pack, Nick is known as Clayton Danvers’ friend or Antonio Sorrentino’s son. He has no reputation himself. He’s an omega wolf.”

The man Vanessa had been working with remotely had not seemed like an omega wolf. The man she’d met this afternoon absolutely did not seem like one. He’d taken charge just fine. But taking charge in a meeting and taking charge in the field were two different things.

“Bottom line,” Rhys had said, “we take the risks here, no matter how much he argues. He’s the Alpha’s BFF. If we get him killed, it’s a shit storm of trouble for us.”

So Rhys wouldn’t call to give her crap for refusing Nick’s demand. He’d call because Vanessa hadn’t kept the client happy. And in this case, she’d had every intention of keeping Nick happy … and the memory of that—and the colossal fuckup that ensued—was why she really needed a gimlet. Possibly two.

Vanessa Callas did not take unnecessary risks. Not in her job. Not in her life. She was smart and she was careful, so smart and so careful that when she did decide to take a chance and do something crazy, she had no idea how, and usually ended up making a complete fool of herself. Like she’d done today.

Vanessa was in charge of five agents. Four of them were women, not because Rhys hired her to play den mother but because, after a few months on the job, female operatives usually requested her as their handler. She’d found the balance between boss and bossy older sister, and her agents took comfort in that. It was a closely knit team, and overnight meetings often resembled sleepaway camp. Which is where Jayne, after a few glasses of wine, started gushing about Nick Sorrentino. Tina pounced on the next Nick update and got her chance, and then she was the one gushing, though it appeared she hadn’t been quite as successful as she’d let on.

Nick Sorrentino. The perfect one-night stand. A werewolf with a model-perfect face and athlete-perfect body. Young enough to have the energy for an all-nighter; old enough to realize his partner should also enjoy that all-nighter. Experienced and attentive. And a nice guy. That was, for her operatives, perhaps the most shocking part of the package.

That’s when Vanessa made her decision. She was going to get some of that. God knows, she needed some of that.

Vanessa was thirty-eight. She’d come to work for Rhys seven years ago. Before that, she’d been with the FBI, zooming up the ranks with such single-mindedness that after a while she no longer even cared about the end goal, wasn’t even sure what her end goal was, only knew that it was higher than wherever she’d been. Then she met Rhys and realized a career could be more interesting and fulfilling, especially for a half-demon.

She worked her ass off, which hadn’t left much time for more than passing relationships. That seemed fine, until she hit thirty-four and the doctor said if she was planning to have children, she was reaching the end stretch. At first she’d been furious—who was he to presume she wanted kids? The more she thought about it, though, the more she realized she did want something, not children but the relationship they sprang from. An intimate bond with someone who could be both lover and companion.

As she was realizing that, a friend introduced her to Roger. At twenty-five, she wouldn’t have given him a second look. There was a spectrum of elements she’d wanted with any potential mate. Looks, yes. Success, yes. But also intelligence, wit, and personality. Score on three out of five, and it didn’t really matter which three, you had a winner. Roger … Roger was adequate in all categories, outstanding in none. Vanessa had decided that was good enough. At least it was at thirty-five, when it seemed a woman was still expected to present an appealing package and then be thrilled if it attracted anyone at all.

Roger was all for a long-term relationship, even if he did wish she’d drop a few pounds. She had—which was a struggle, given her figure—and she hadn’t even pointed out the fact that his spare tire was rapidly becoming tractor-sized. Though he had two kids from his previous marriage, he wanted more. She wasn’t set on them but wasn’t set against them, either, so she said sure. Then, on the day they’d been supposed to move in together, he announced he’d found someone else. A twenty-five-year-old who was, it seemed, in possession of a more reliable set of ovaries.

That was the end of Roger.

Vanessa hadn’t dated since, too angry and disillusioned. The problem was, if you weren’t dating, you weren’t getting sex. Twice in the last few months, she’d found herself in a hotel bar, seriously considering an invitation from a fellow traveler. Which meant the situation was growing dire—in her line of work, you know better than to ever go back to a stranger’s room. What she needed was a hookup that came with a “not a psycho” stamp of approval. What she needed was Nick Sorrentino.

So when Tina got a solid lead on Malcolm Danvers, Vanessa made an overdue business trip to New York and combined it with the chance to deliver this update to Nick herself. She’d bought a new dress—a little vampy but revealing nothing more than curves—and tried not to regret the ten pounds she’d gained back post-Roger. She’d left her hair unpinned. She’d taken extra care with her makeup. Then she’d formulated a plan of seduction. Except, well, her experience with seduction was … nonexistent. Still, from what Jayne and Tina suggested, Nick didn’t need serious wooing. She would let him know she was game and perfectly fine with the concept of casual sex. It had seemed like the easiest way to convey this message was to bring up Jayne and Tina.

There was a moment, when she first saw Nick, where she doubted the wisdom of her plan. It was not because his bio photos didn’t do him justice. In person, Nick Sorrentino looked like he’d just stepped off an ad for Armani or Ferrari. Tall and slender, flawless olive skin, dark wavy hair, deep brown eyes … He might be fifty but, being a werewolf, he looked a decade younger. And Vanessa was sure Nick Sorrentino would still turn heads when he did look fifty. And sixty. Probably even seventy.

But it wasn’t his looks that made her hesitate. It was him—his manner and his bearing and his demeanor, quiet and professional, polite and thoughtful. She hadn’t expected a smarmy playboy, but maybe, yes, a hint of that, an air that said he was a player and proud of it. When she didn’t detect any such sign, she realized her plan might be … unwise. But by then, it was too late. She’d played her hand and insulted him and made a fool of herself.

Now she waited for a call from Rhys, telling her their client was not pleased and he wasn’t sure what the hell she’d done but she was off the case.

When the phone rang, she reached over with trepidation. Then she saw the caller ID. Mayfair Flowers. Tina Mayfair’s code name.

“I can’t imagine Detroit is such a tourist hot spot that it took you ninety minutes to find a hotel room,” Vanessa said on answering.

When silence returned, she continued, “Tell me you’re at a hotel …”

“I made visual confirmation,” Tina said. “Just as I was about to leave my post, he came out of his contact’s house. It was too dark for a distance photo, so—”

“Did I tell you not to approach?” Vanessa said. “Did I order you to stand down?”

“But he was right there, and it was dark enough for me to get closer for a photo.”

“So you got it?”

Silence. Then, “It wasn’t as easy as it seemed. I’ve been following him—”

“No!” Vanessa said. “I don’t care if he’s twenty feet away standing under a streetlight. Back down. Now.”

“I would, but …”

Vanessa gripped the phone. “But what …?”

“Somehow, I lost him. I got myself into this blind alley and I feel like an idiot.”

No, you didn’t get yourself there. Malcolm Danvers got you there.

“Get out now,” Vanessa said. “Whatever it takes. Just—”

A sharp intake of breath. Then a clatter, as if the phone had hit the pavement.

“Mayfair?” Vanessa called. “Mayfair!”

Another clatter. Then a male voice. “Hello?”

“Who is this?”

“Who is this? Did you lose your phone?” the man said, his voice soft. “Or did you lose something else? Yes, I believe you did. Such a shame, too. She’s not gone, though. Not yet. I could return her. Would you like that?”

Vanessa struggled not to snap a reply. “Yes, I would.”

“I thought so.”

The line went dead.

Vanessa sat clutching the phone. Two choices. One, cover her ass—and her employer’s. Save them the humiliation of admitting they’d underestimated Malcolm Danvers. Request backup, jump on the next plane to Detroit, and pray she could get her agent back.

Option two? Well, option two would result in huge personal and professional embarrassment, and quite likely cost Vanessa a job she loved. It also gave Tina her best chance of survival.

Vanessa picked up the phone and dialed.

5. NICK

It was almost nine-thirty, which in the Sorrentino household meant dinner hour, since it was late enough that everyone was finally home, at least temporarily. No one even considered the possibility of separate dining times. In this house, the evening meal was the one chance for everyone to be together, if only for an hour or two.

Tonight dinner started even later than usual, Nick having picked Antonio up at the airport. He hadn’t needed to—Antonio would be the first to say he could grab a cab. But after his father had been away for a week, Nick knew he’d much prefer a lift and an hour spent catching up. So Nick always made sure he was there, waiting.

They were partway through the meal when Nick’s cell phone buzzed. He was about to shut it off—work or friends could wait. But then he saw who it was and said, “I need to take this.”

Nick took the phone outside, where Antonio wouldn’t overhear his conversation. Vanessa told him what happened—that Tina had apparently been trapped and then kidnapped by Malcolm.

“He wants something,” she said. “He’s holding her hostage until he gets it.”

The only thing Malcolm wanted from Tina was amusement. As for trading Tina’s life for his freedom, that was ridiculous. Malcolm wouldn’t trust any promise to call off the hunt, and he’d never think himself in serious danger anyway. Malcolm intended to kill Tina, but he would keep her alive until she’d served her purpose.

Nick didn’t tell Vanessa that. He could hear how upset she was, and he wouldn’t take away her hope, no more than he’d say, “I told you so.”

“You know him,” she said. “You understand how he thinks.”

Nick doubted any sane person could understand how Malcolm thought, but the Pack knew better than to underestimate Malcolm, which was where outsiders failed.

Nick checked his watch. “I’m going to see if I can still catch a flight tonight.”

“You can. There are seats on the last plane to Detroit, leaving just before midnight. Your ticket will be waiting. I’ll meet you at the gate.”

“Meet?”

“It’s my agent. I’m coming along. I’ll see you at the airport.”

She hung up. Nick hesitated, then glanced at his watch again. No time to call her back and argue. They’d settle this at the gate.

Antonio had no idea Nick was spearheading the campaign to find Malcolm. If he did … well, Nick was a little old for his father to forbid him to do anything, but in this case, Antonio would sure as hell try.

Antonio knew Malcolm was alive. He thought, though, that Elena and Clay were hunting him with Nick just helping out. Antonio would even be fine with Nick liaising with Rhys’s team, as long as any involvement stopped short of Nick getting within a hundred miles of Malcolm.

There was a reason Nick lacked a reputation in the werewolf world: because his father had done everything in his power to keep Nick from the fights and challenges that would earn him one. When Nick was young, he’d even been forbidden to travel without other werewolves, for fear some mutt would decide to see what Antonio Sorrentino’s son was made of. Nick used to beg Clay to set up challenge fights for him, as he watched Clay climb the ranks himself. A few times Clay did have a challenger to spare, but even then, when Nick won his bout, all he heard about afterward was Clay.

Traditionally, in the werewolf world, if you didn’t have a rep, you were invisible. Then Jeremy became Alpha. Jeremy, who’d rarely fought a bout, because Clay would quietly intercept all challengers to protect him. In the past, the Alpha had to be the strongest werewolf in the Pack. But times had changed and Jeremy had other qualities that made him the perfect leader for the twenty-first century. With his ascension, the pressure to gain a reputation eased, and Nick had relaxed. His Pack valued him. Any mutt he encountered discovered he was a perfectly fine fighter. And Antonio could rest easy, knowing his son was safe, which was the main thing.

Nick was going to let his father keep resting easy, for as long as he could. So he made his excuses—Pack business, Elena needed him to check something out—and then grabbed his packed bag and took off.

As Nick drove down the long lane, he spotted a blond figure leaning against the gate, and for a moment he saw Clay, half a lifetime ago, staking out the end of the drive, waiting for him.

“You going somewhere, Nicky? Not after that mutt they spotted in the city, I hope.”

But it wasn’t Clay. It was Reese.

Nick pulled over and put down the window. Reese leaned in.

“Where is he?” Reese asked.

“Who?”

“Malcolm.” Reese raised a hand against his protest. “Yeah, I’ve figured it out. You need to work on your stealth skills, Nick. You aren’t very good at it.”

Nor was he any good at denying it, especially given his pact of honesty with the boys.

“He’s been spotted in Detroit,” Nick admitted. “I hired Rhys to find him, and there’s a problem. I’m going to sort it out. Elena knows. Antonio doesn’t. Obviously, I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“Sure.”

The agreement came quickly. Nick must have looked surprised, because Reese shrugged. “I know how he is. And I know you’re not heading off to take on Malcolm yourself.”

Nick gave a short laugh. “No. I’m not that stupid. Once I’ve confirmed the situation, I’ll bring Clay in.”

“Good.”

Reese walked around the car and opened the passenger door. Nick caught and held it.

“I’m coming with you,” Reese said. “Yes, it’s basic recon work. Yes, you can handle it. But you should have backup.”

“I do. One of Rhys’s agents.”

“Doesn’t count,” Reese said. “This is werewolf business.”

Nick hesitated. He had vowed not to be his father. He would protect the boys, but he wouldn’t coddle them. Yet as he paused, his gaze went to Reese’s two maimed fingers. Chopped off by a couple of mutts in Anchorage, partly a warning, but partly just because they could. These days, Reese would have been prepared for those mutts. But he sure as hell wasn’t prepared for Malcolm.

“Not this time,” Nick said. “Not with Malcolm.”

“Because he’s a badass. And a psychopath. I’ve heard the stories. Hell, I even heard them in Australia, long after he was supposed to be dead. All the more reason for you to have backup.”

“Which I will. Clay will join me as soon as I’ve confirmed the situation. I can handle this, Reese.”

“I never said you couldn’t.”

As Nick stared him down, Reese dropped his gaze, grumbling slightly, knowing that if he insisted, he was saying Nick couldn’t handle it.

“I’ll call if I need you,” Nick said.

“Bullshit.”

Nick met his gaze. “If I say I will, I will. You know that.”

Again, Reese grumbled and looked away, but he nodded, saying a “Fine” that insisted it wasn’t fine at all, then shut the door and let Nick drive away without him.

6. NICK

Nick had less luck persuading Vanessa to stay behind. Admittedly, he didn’t try very hard, after telling Reese he’d have an agent backing him up. He’d already strained the truth with Reese by suggesting Elena knew exactly what he was up to. He’d texted her to say that Rhys’s handler lost touch with her agent so he was flying out that night. Once he had visual confirmation of Malcolm, he’d call Clay in. All technically true. He’d just left out the part where that MIA agent had almost certainly been kidnapped by Malcolm.

Vanessa had bought them first-class tickets. Probably assumed he wouldn’t fly coach. Not necessarily true—he was as flexible in that as in everything else—but yes, given the choice, he’d take the extra leg and elbow room.

Their seats were together, which was less comfortable. He hadn’t forgotten that this whole mess could have been avoided if she’d listened to him. Also, while he wasn’t one to hold a grudge, her early mockery still stung. If it wouldn’t have been rude, he might have switched his seat. As it was, he just worked quietly on his laptop.

Halfway through the short flight, Vanessa cleared her throat and said, “Tell me about Malcolm Danvers.”

He glanced over. She had her laptop out. Malcolm’s dossier was right there on the screen, and he wanted to tell her to read it instead, but that was being pissy. She followed his gaze, though, and said, “That’s his bio from Elena. Heavily redacted.”

“I’m sure she didn’t remove anything you need to identify him. Or to understand what he’s capable of.”

“No, but it’s like reading the arrest file for someone who was never charged with a crime. Without a trial, there’s nothing in-depth. No motivation. No insight.”

“I’m not sure I can provide that, either. I knew him for half my life, but we weren’t close. Malcolm had his favorites. Thankfully, I wasn’t one of them.”

“Who was?”

Nick hesitated, but the answer did explain more about Malcolm, which would help her.

“Antonio—my father—and Clay were his favorites,” he said, “Jeremy was … not the kind of son Malcolm wanted. So he looked for substitutes. Antonio was a fighter, and that always topped Malcolm’s list of requirements. But when Clay came along …?” Nick shrugged. “My father isn’t aggressive. There’s no edge. No anger. He fights for pure physical challenge. Clay has edge. He was bitten as a child. He embraces his wolf side more than any of us. Malcolm was fascinated by him. He didn’t understand him, though. Whatever Clay’s rep, he’s no psycho. If you threaten his family, he won’t think twice about killing you. But otherwise? He’s never laid a finger on anyone for kicks. He wouldn’t understand that, any more than a real wolf would. Violence is for problem-solving. Malcolm didn’t get that. When Clay wouldn’t hunt mutts for sport, Malcolm blamed Jeremy’s influence. It didn’t matter how much Clay hated Malcolm—and he hated him more than anyone—Malcolm never stopped pursuing him.”

“As a substitute son? Or … more?”

“Antonio always thought there was more to it when Malcolm chased him. There was no shortage of women in Malcolm’s life, but he had nothing but contempt for them, and humans in general. So maybe there was some confusion there. Looking to make a connection, whatever that connection might be.”

“Is Elena in danger, then? If Malcolm wanted a woman of his own kind, there is one now. Only one.”

“He won’t go after her like that. It’d be easier if he would—lay a trap for him. She might be a werewolf, but to him, she’s just a woman. Weak.”

“Except she kicked his ass.”

Nick smiled at the thought. “True, but that’s only going to piss him off. Elena belongs to Clay, so she’s relatively safe. Same with me.”

“Because you’re Antonio’s son.”

He nodded. “Malcolm never pursued me, but he treated me well for Antonio’s sake. I’d say that means he won’t come after me, but I’d never make that presumption. It only means I’m unlikely to draw his immediate fire.”

“He’ll think twice before attacking you.”

“No, but he’ll think twice before killing me.”

“According to the GPS from Tina’s phone, she was somewhere around here when she called. It was shut off after … Nick?”

They’d arrived in Detroit an hour ago, rented a car, and drove to this neighborhood. They’d been walking for about ten minutes as Nick followed the trail. He’d moved away while Vanessa had been talking. Now he lifted a hand, telling her to be quiet as he listened. The night was still and silent. Nick could see signs that it hadn’t always been like that. There had been shops, but they were long closed and boarded up. An empty block, inhabited only by homeless people and vermin. Vermin of the animal variety—even gangbangers and dealers didn’t see profit in a place without buyers. Contrary to what the news reports might suggest, the whole city of Detroit wasn’t like this, but there were pockets of it. A modern-day ghost town.

Tina should have taken one look around and known she was being led into a trap. But she’d been too cocky. He’d gotten that vibe from her when they met, and it was part of what made him decide they wouldn’t spend the night together. Here, she would have looked around and thought this was the perfect place to catch her prey, without ever considering Malcolm might be thinking the same thing.

“Stay close,” Nick said as he set out.

“We should do this methodically,” Vanessa whispered as she jogged to catch up. “Tina said it was a blind alley, so if we cover the area strip by strip—”

“No need,” he said. “I have her trail.”

“Trail? Oh, right. Scent. Okay. I’ll cover you.”

Vanessa had a gun. A legal one she’d checked at the airport. While she’d readily admitted that she hadn’t been in the field for a few years, she seemed to know what she was doing, so he left her to it and focused on Tina’s scent.

Even without the trail, he could have guessed where Tina was heading—he could see two burned-out streetlights ahead and a dark roadway that seemed to lead to a dead end. Only her trail entered the blind alley, though. That gave him pause, but he continued following the trail until—

A scent hit him so hard that he stopped in mid-stride. It was no stronger than Tina’s, but it felt like cold fingers reaching deep into his brain to pluck out a memory long buried.

“Malcolm,” he murmured.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he snapped, with more impatience than he intended.

“Sorry, but it’s been twenty years since you’ve been near him,” she said. “And you expected to smell him here, so—”

“Werewolves don’t forget Pack scents.” Nick walked to the building on the left. “He was on the roof. He jumped her. Then …” He followed Tina’s scent back to the road.

“He took her that way.” Vanessa pointed the direction they’d come.

Nick shook his head. “I only smell Tina.”

“She escaped?”

“No, he let her go.”

Vanessa walked back to the road and looked down it. “That’s not possible. She would have called as soon as she found a pay phone.”

“He didn’t release her. He let her run so he could chase.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s his idea of fun.”

7. NICK

Malcolm had let Tina run because it amused him, but Nick knew it was more than simple sport. Presumably there was no place nearby he’d deemed suitable to hold her and it had saved Malcolm the hassle of transporting her out of this neighborhood. It might be empty here, but there was life a few blocks over. Also, a quick capture lacked challenge.

As a trained agent, Tina wouldn’t flee to the authorities. With her ego, she’d be cursing herself for getting jumped. Also, Malcolm wouldn’t simply have released her—he’d have allowed her to “escape,” so she’d think she bested him. That would give her confidence. She’d want to repair her failure. To turn the tables and catch him. And all the while, he’d be herding her.

The trails confirmed Nick’s guess. They’d converge and separate, and he could see Malcolm driving her along a preordained path, one that funneled Tina where he wanted her to go, giving her few options to divert from the path and driving her back onto it when she did.

Vanessa watched his back in silence as he tracked. He considered Changing to wolf form, but the trail was clear enough.

Too clear? That was the question.

Had Malcolm laid this trail for someone to follow? The only person who could follow it was a werewolf, and Malcolm wouldn’t suspect that one of the Pack had sent Tina after him. Werewolves didn’t hire outsiders to do their dirty work. He’d presume Tina was from the Nasts, so he just hadn’t worried about hiding his scent trail. Still, Nick kept an eye—and an ear—on his surroundings.

Eventually the trail led to an empty building, abandoned so long that it was impossible to tell what it had been. Maybe a small factory or even a school—a two-story rectangular box without a window left intact.

Nick glanced around the neighborhood. Not really a neighborhood so much as a piece of land with buildings on it, some homes, some commercial, some occupied, some not. At this hour, it was silent. He took one last listen and then led Vanessa through a doorway.

Inside, the only light came from the moon shining through broken windows.

“Can you see?” Nick whispered to Vanessa.

“Not well.”

He gave her credit for admitting it. “Stay close. If you can’t see me in front of you, let me know. I’d rather not use flashlights if we can help it.”

“If I need to, I have this.” She lifted her fingers and they started to glow.

“Then use it,” he whispered. “Better than tripping in the dark and making noise.”

“I know.”

There was no annoyance in her voice, but he murmured an apology nonetheless.

Even inside, Nick couldn’t tell what purpose the building had once served. Anything that could leave a hint had been stripped. It was all empty rooms. Well, not really empty—there was plenty of junk, but most of it seemed to have been brought in by squatters over the years.

Now, though, he could hear no signs of life. When he passed one room, he caught the scent of a corpse. A recent one. Human. Male. He smelled blood, too.

As they passed the room, Vanessa lit up her fingers and waved them inside, illuminating a corpse, sitting up, throat ripped out.

“Werewolf?” she whispered.

Nick didn’t answer right away. It was a classic werewolf kill, which made him slow to reply. It’s not easy to tear out someone’s throat when you’re in human form, so there was a moment where he wondered if it could be an animal’s work. But then he caught the scent, and when he moved closer, he found a few dark hairs caught in the man’s ripped flesh. Wolf fur. Malcolm had Changed form and cleared the building, scaring out those who would run and killing those who wouldn’t.

When Nick told Vanessa, she gazed down at the body. Not horrified but disgusted. Thoughtful too, before she turned to him and said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

She nodded at the body and then waved around the building, and he knew what she meant. Sorry that she’d thought he was exaggerating. Sorry that she’d underestimated Malcolm.

“Let’s find Tina,” he said.

She nodded and followed him out of the room.

They found a second body. A girl. Maybe seventeen. A street kid. She lay on her back, long sleeves ripped as if she’d tried to protect her throat as the wolf leapt on her. That death hit harder, and it took a moment to move on. When they did, Nick heard the whisper of fabric on concrete, so faint he thought he’d imagined it until he made Vanessa stop moving and he caught the noise again. It sounded like something being dragged across the concrete floor.

He followed the sound. They were on the second floor and the noise seemed to come from the middle. When he approached, his arm shot out to stop Vanessa. He motioned for her to light her fingers. She did and looked around. Ahead, part of the floor was missing, and they could see down to the first level … where a body lay in the middle of the room.

“Tina,” Vanessa whispered.

Nick caught her before she could move closer to the hole. She leaned and strained to see better.

Tina lay on her stomach. Drag marks led to a blood pool ten feet behind her.

“Is she …?” Vanessa asked.

He was about to say he couldn’t tell when Tina moved, one arm slowly reaching out as she propelled herself forward. That was the sound he’d heard—Tina dragging herself toward the door.

Vanessa exhaled. She started forward, but this time caught herself.

“It’s a trap, isn’t it?” Vanessa whispered.

Nick nodded.

“But we can’t leave.” She straightened. “I have an agent down. That’s my priority, above my own safety.”

She looked over, as if expecting him to argue. He didn’t. If it was a Pack brother, he’d do the same. He waved her back to the hall, where they could come up with a plan.

8. VANESSA

Leaving Tina was one of the hardest things Vanessa had ever done. Even if she knew she wasn’t abandoning her, that’s what it felt like. Her agent—her friend—was lying in her own blood, badly injured, and Vanessa had walked away.

She’d screwed up here worse than she ever had before. It didn’t matter if Rhys had refused to let Nick take over. It didn’t matter if Vanessa had warned Tina off and called Jayne in to assist. She did not accept excuses from her team and she would not make excuses for herself. Whatever had happened to Tina—whatever was happening now—it was Vanessa’s fault.

Nick stayed upstairs to stand watch over Tina and to avoid spreading his scent through the building. She had to struggle to factor scent into the equation. It required a bigger mental leap than she would have imagined. A werewolf could track his prey, no matter where she ran. A werewolf could smell someone nearby, even if they were silent and hidden. A werewolf could recognize another by scent. Thinking that way was as normal for them as using her built-in flashlight was for her.

Rhys had a werewolf on the team, and Vanessa had prided herself on thinking she knew all about them because she’d once spearheaded a huge operation with him. Now she realized that was as ridiculous as saying you understand another culture because you have one casual friend from it.

As she continued across the first floor, she didn’t detect anyone else around. She kept her gun in one hand, the fingers on her free hand lit, not just for light but to jump-start her powers if Malcolm leapt at her from the shadows. That’s what he seemed to have done to Tina. Werewolves didn’t use guns—even the one on Rhys’s team balked at it. According to the Nast file, Malcolm had refused to use anything but fist and fang. They’d send him out with a gun or blade, only to find he’d left it behind, as if even carrying a weapon spoke of weakness.

So Vanessa kept moving, as quickly as she dared, poised for attack. As she turned a corner, she heard a scratching sound. She wheeled, her back to the wall, gun ready.

She continued, inching along the wall now, struggling to check her speed. The sound grew louder. Vanessa moved to the open doorway and stopped.

There was Tina, sprawled on the floor, a few feet farther from that puddle of blood. One arm was outstretched to drag herself along, but only her fingers moved, scratching the concrete floor as if her strength was gone and she was too far into shock to realize the futility of it. Vanessa gripped the wooden doorjamb so hard she smelled smoke. She only gripped harder, struggling not to race into the room.

That’s what he wants. You see her there, dying, and run to her.

Now came the time for faith. To trust that a man she barely knew would watch her from above.

She walked forward with her gun out, fingers blazing, knowing that was still not enough to save her from Malcolm. Only Nick could do that. She had to walk into the middle of that floor, an open target.

“Tina?” she whispered.

Tina kept scratching at the floor.

Vanessa moved to her side and lowered herself on one knee. She could hear Tina’s breathing, shallow and labored. When she touched the woman’s shoulder, Tina didn’t tense, didn’t react at all, just kept scratching the floor.

She gripped Tina’s shoulders with both hands, her fire extinguished, her gun on the floor, intentionally leaving herself vulnerable. Tina still didn’t respond. Vanessa carefully turned her over and—

She sucked in a breath. Tina’s throat was … Vanessa had seen Malcolm’s other two victims, their throats savaged, a bloody mess of tissue and gore. He hadn’t done that to Tina. He’d slit her throat just enough to let her bleed out. Slowly.

Vanessa’s burning fingertips flew to Tina’s neck, pulling the flesh together and then cauterizing the wound to stop the bleeding. Field medicine learned from another fire half-demon on Rhys’s team.

She closed the wound, but when she looked at Tina, she knew it was too late. The critical blood loss was back there, a dozen feet away. Tina still breathed, heart pumping, but her eyes were empty, her hand flexing as if she was still scratching at that floor, the instinct for survival outlasting all other mental functions.

Vanessa told herself she was wrong. Had to be wrong. Tina was alive. Just in shock. The wound was cauterized and now they just needed to get her to help.

She whipped around, looking for Nick, annoyed that he wasn’t already here to help. When she caught a flicker of motion, she remembered why he wasn’t and grabbed for her gun, but it was only Nick, leaping from the second floor as easily as if it’d been a two-foot hop.

“We need to get her help. There’s a clinic—”

“She’s gone, Vanessa,” he said softly.

“No, she’s breathing. She’s alive. She can get a transfusion. Help me lift—”

“Vanessa?” He took her shoulder and, before she could throw him off, turned her to look down at Tina, lying unmoving on the floor.

“No,” she whispered. She dropped to her knees and looked into Tina’s eyes, wide and staring blankly. Then she heard a rattle, deep in the woman’s chest.

“She’s alive. She …”

Tina’s lips parted, and she exhaled. Then she went still.

Vanessa’s hands slammed down on Tina’s chest, pumping, starting CPR. She knew it was useless. She’d known she couldn’t save Tina from the moment she saw that hole in her throat and that look in her eyes. Tina had been lost before they even made it to the building.

That didn’t stop Vanessa from performing CPR, even as she swore she could feel Tina’s body cooling. At last, she felt Nick’s hand on her shoulder, fingers resting there, telling her what she already knew—they had to go.

Vanessa pulled back and stared down at Tina. The hole in her throat was almost medically precise in its placement. No knife had made it, though. The edges were jagged, as if Malcolm had … She wasn’t even sure how you’d do that. Bite? Rip? Whatever he’d done, there was no way Tina sat still and took it. Yet it would be impossible to be that precise with a struggling—

She bent and ran her hands over Tina’s head. There it was. A goose egg, also expertly placed. He’d brought her here, questioned her, knocked her out, and then cut her throat. That’s why there’d been one blood pool. Tina had been bleeding out and then regained consciousness and crawled away.

Vanessa rose. Nick had moved off now, scouting the area and occasionally dropping into a crouch, presumably sniffing.

“It was definitely Malcolm,” he said, though she knew he was checking for her benefit only. He knew who this was. No one else would be this sadistic.

“It wasn’t a trap for us, was it?” she said. “He didn’t even stick around to watch her die.”

“It would seem not,” he said slowly, looking around.

“You don’t detect any sign of him, do you?”

“No, it’s just … It seems odd.”

“Only if you presume he knew someone would come after Tina tonight, which would have been nearly impossible if we weren’t relatively close already.” She reached down to touch the pool of blood. It was already tacky. “It’s been at least an hour. Maybe two.”

“And he tired of waiting, I suppose. I’ll hide her body for now. You have someone who can come to retrieve it?”

“First thing in the morning. For now, I need to notify Rhys.”

Vanessa retreated to a corner to do that. She kept her back to Tina’s body. It was the only way she could focus. Seven years on the job, and she’d never lost an agent. She’d been so proud of her record, and now she realized it’d been dumb luck. No matter how many precautions you took, it was never enough. There was always something to miss, blame to take—

She pushed away the thought and went to notify Rhys.

9. NICK

Nick circled the room as Vanessa texted Rhys. There was no reason for Malcolm to give Tina that slow death if no one would witness it. Had Malcolm known her backup was coming? Having been an operative himself, he’d know that the phone call he’d interrupted would have triggered backup, possibly even from someone already in the city.

So why wasn’t Malcolm here? Nick was quite certain he’d left—the trail he found was cold, and when he followed it as far as he dared, it continued on toward the back of the building. There was no trace of Malcolm’s scent in the surrounding rooms to suggest he’d lain in wait.

This was, admittedly, the point where he’d normally turn to Elena or Clay and say, “What do you make of this?” That would be the extent of his responsibility.

He circled the room one last time. Then he stopped short.

“We need to go,” he said, turning to Vanessa.

She was still on the phone and raised a finger, telling him to hold on.

He strode over. “No, we need to leave. It’s a trap. We’re in a building with at least three dead bodies and—”

As if on cue, he picked up the distant creak of a floorboard.

“Now,” he said.

She signed off. “We need to move Tina—”

“Too late. Someone’s coming.”

“We should wait,” she said. “Hide and see what’s going on.”

“I know. But not here. Come on.”

Nick and Vanessa watched as three people stood around Tina’s body. Three men dressed in dark clothing, two holding guns, the third a knife. Big guns—.45 caliber, he’d guess. The knife wasn’t small, either, and judging by the bulge under the guy’s jacket, he had a gun there, too.

They weren’t werewolves. Nick could tell that from their hiding spot, the men’s scent drifting far enough to pick up. They looked like … Well, that was the thing. To the untrained eye, they looked like commandos or mercenaries, like guys who’d work for someone like Rhys. Except, having met people who worked for Rhys, Nick knew that real mercenaries dressed and acted like ordinary people. Blending in.

These guys looked like they were in a mercenary role-playing game. They were physically suited to the role, at least the stereotype of it. None over forty years old or under six feet tall. All square-jawed and bristle-haired. It’d be an amusing spectacle, actually, if they weren’t standing over the corpse of a woman he’d known.

It’d also be more amusing if those guns weren’t so damned big.

One dropped to his knee beside Tina.

“Looks different than the others,” one of his companions said.

“Different but the same. Still a werewolf kill.”

Nick tensed. They knew they were stalking a werewolf?

The guy continued. “Seems as if he got interrupted here. Started tearing out her throat and something stopped him.”

“Think he heard us coming?”

The kneeling guy, who seemed to be the leader, touched the blood trail. “Nah. It’s dry.”

“She’s different, too.” That was the third guy, his hair so short he might have been bald. “That’s no hobo. Are we sure it’s our target’s handiwork?”

“No,” the leader said. “It’s some random dude who just happened to slit her throat in the same building where two people had their throats ripped out by our target. Of course it’s him. We have two kinds of victims—those who won’t be missed and pretty women.” The guy rose. “Okay, let’s fan out. See if this bastard left any clues.”

This was, one could argue, the point at which Nick should get the hell out of Dodge. He was a werewolf, and these guys were looking for a werewolf. Bounty hunters of some type, he guessed, on Malcolm’s trail. That was the trap. Let Tina die slowly, knowing these guys were coming. Either they’d find her alive and slow down to help—or, if her handler had dispatched backup, the arrival of three armed bounty hunters would throw a wrench into the works. Either way, it let Malcolm slip off scot-free.

So Nick should go after Malcolm. And he did. He followed the trail out of the building, over two blocks, where it disappeared at the roadside, meaning Malcolm had hopped into a car and escaped. There was no tracking him after that.

“I want to know who those guys are,” he said to Vanessa as they walked. “If they’ve separated, I can grab one. Question him.”

“That’s what I’d suggest,” she said. “Except for the part where you question him.”

As the leader said, they’d split up. Vanessa left Nick in charge of tracking. He knew which one he wanted. The bald guy. More brawn than brains. He’d fight the hardest, but he’d break first, too. That’s what Clay always said, which is why, in a fight, he often left the biggest guy to Nick.

Now Nick was tracking his target, with Vanessa as backup. It didn’t take long before he could hear the guy, who made no effort to hide his footfalls. Soon she could hear their target, too, in the parallel hall. They continued on to the next adjoining corridor. Nick veered off to intercept as Vanessa carried on.

Nick came out behind the guy. He moved cautiously, rolling his footfalls, and closed the gap until he was a few feet behind his target. Then he slowed and listened. After a moment, he heard Vanessa’s footsteps. A few seconds later, the guy heard them, too.

The guy stopped. Nick halted behind him, barely breathing. The target raised his gun and dropped his free hand to his side, brushing his radio. He must know he should notify his team, but he couldn’t bring himself to call in backup. Straightening, he strode forward just as Vanessa turned the corner in front of him. Surprised, the man stopped short.

That’s when Nick lunged. His pounce was silent, he was sure of that. But the guy must have sensed something behind him. He spun, gun rising. Nick slammed a fist into the side of his head. The guy flew off his feet and hit the ground.

“Nice,” Vanessa murmured as she knelt, confirming the man was out cold.

He let Vanessa bind the man’s hands with plastic cuffs, blindfold and gag him, and then Nick loaded the limp body over his shoulder and carried him out of the building.

10. NICK

Nick hauled the bounty hunter into the equally empty building next door. By the time they found a room, the man was kicking and grunting against his gag. Nick dumped him on the filthy floor.

Vanessa warned the man that she was going to remove his gag and there was no sense calling for help—lying that they’d taken him far from his companions. The moment the gag came off, though, he started to yell. Vanessa pistol-whipped him in the exact spot where Nick had punched him and Nick yanked the gag back into place.

Vanessa repeated the warning. This time, the man seemed to decide he ought to listen, maybe because he now realized Vanessa wasn’t alone.

“Who’s your partner?” he said, whipping his head about as if he could peer through the blindfold.

“An associate.”

“I saw him when he clocked me. I’ve seen him before, too.”

Nick tensed.

“And where have you seen him?” she asked.

“I dunno. But I got a look at him right before he decked me.”

“Describe him, then.”

The guy stammered and blustered, saying Nick had dark hair and he was a “really big guy.” Nick had to smile at the second part. Obviously, that line drive to the head had colored the man’s recollection.

Nick let her handle the questioning. He had some knowledge of interrogation techniques. Well, the kind Clay used, at least, which usually involved his fists. Clay would prefer something more intellectual—the guy was a PhD, after all—but as he’d said many times, that wasn’t the language mutts spoke.

It was different with this guy. Vanessa used the classic good-cop routine, claiming she was only doing her job, regretted it even, and sounded as if she genuinely did.

“Look, I overheard you guys in there,” she said. “You’re hunting a werewolf. I have no issue with that. Filthy, murdering scum. Did you see what one of those bastards did to my colleague?”

It took a moment for him to realize she meant Tina. “She was with you?”

“Yes. I have a feeling you and I are after the same guy. But you aren’t authorized to take him out. I checked with my superiors. There’s no record of an alternate license being issued.”

“License …?”

“For hunting werewolves.”

“Since when do we need a license?”

“Since when don’t you? The Cabals regulate the hunting of all werewolves and vampires. And if you pretend you don’t know what a Cabal is …”

“Of course I do. But I don’t know nothing about them regulating werewolf hunting.”

“Then I’d suggest you look into it, because if you’re caught? The penalty is stiff, as you might imagine.”

He paled.

Nick mouthed a question to Vanessa, who nodded.

“So that’s what you’re doing, then,” she said. “Hunting vermin? Or is it a bounty?”

“Both.”

“Hunting vermin for a bounty? Or just this particular werewolf?”

The man shrugged. “Any werewolf would do. The guy just wants them exterminated, and he’s willing to pay to see it happen. Win-win.”

“Exterminated?” Vanessa said.

“Well, controlled. You can’t just wipe them out, right? Not that I’d argue if you could. World would be a better place without those brutes.”

Nick tried not to react. This was something he couldn’t get used to. When he was growing up, the Pack had kept itself separate from the greater supernatural world, so he’d never had cause to wonder what others thought of them. Then the Pack rejoined the interracial council, and he’d found out exactly what they thought.

“So someone’s putting out bounties on werewolves,” Vanessa said. “Besides general cleanup, what’s his motivation?”

The guy’s face screwed up in confusion. “Motivation?”

“Did this guy lose someone to a werewolf?”

“Not that I know of. He just doesn’t like them. He considers it his … what’s it called? Civic duty. As a supernatural.”

Nick mouthed another question.

“Let me step back, then,” Vanessa said. “Do you know who you’re hunting?”

“It’s not a who. It’s a what. Werewolves aren’t human. You can’t think of them that way.”

Nick rocked on the balls of his feet.

“Let’s pretend it’s a who,” Vanessa said. “For simplicity’s sake. Do you know the identity of the one you’re hunting now?”

A pause. A long one. Then, “Pete does.”

“Pete?”

“The team captain. He gets all that intel. We’re not supposed to ask.”

“Do you know anything about it? How he found out the guy’s a werewolf? Who told him where to find him?”

More silence. Then, defensively, “That’s not how it works. The team doesn’t get details.”

Vanessa prodded, but more wasn’t forthcoming. The facts seemed clear enough. Someone was putting out bounties on werewolves and had set these guys on Malcolm’s tail. Then Malcolm discovered he had two groups to contend with—the bounty hunters and whoever Tina worked for—and used one to distract the other while he fled.

11. VANESSA

Tina was dead. Murdered horribly. Vanessa kept thinking, What if we’d been a few minutes quicker? What if we hadn’t been so careful? It wouldn’t have made a difference. She knew that. Yet logic didn’t help, because she’d seen Tina alive, seen her moving, and there was part of her that insisted her operative could have been saved. That she’d failed.

Dwelling on that was self-indulgent, though. There was a job to do—stopping Tina’s killer. Grief would come later.

It wasn’t just Malcolm they needed to worry about now. Vanessa was with a werewolf … and there were three idiots in town on a werewolf hunt.

Vanessa could tell that conversation had upset Nick. No one wants to think another person would hunt them down as “vermin.” But she hadn’t expected him to seem quite so shocked. Because she wasn’t. That’s when she realized that no matter how liberal she considered her own views, she still supported the stereotypes by not being shocked, not being outraged.

As they walked out of the building, she wanted to tell Nick she’d never heard of such bounties, that these men were clearly thugs of the lowest order. Except she’d be lying. Not about the thugs part. They obviously were. But supernaturals did hunt werewolves and vampires. Not often, and they usually weren’t successful. Given that there were only a few dozen of each on the continent, more than the very rare death would be noticed, and the werewolves and vampires would retaliate.

They should retaliate. Put an end to it. It wasn’t as if the hunters would fight back. They were like humans going after big game. They knew, if their prey got within ten feet of them, they’d be dead. So why didn’t werewolves and vampires put a scare into the hunters? Because people like the Cabals and Rhys’s teams didn’t bother to warn them. Didn’t want to stir them up, because that would just be inconvenient.

As they neared their rented car, Vanessa said, “It does happen.”

Nick looked over, his dark brows gathering.

“Hunting werewolves,” she said. “And vampires. I’ve heard of it.”

She braced for him to ask why they didn’t tell the Pack.

“I’ve heard of it, too,” he said. “But not in North America. It’s a big problem in areas without a Pack, and there are plenty of those. Supernaturals go there to hunt. Elena even found an encrypted Web site offering tours.” His lip curled. “We’d never heard of it here, though. I’ll have to let Elena know.”

And that was it. No blame. No accusation. He didn’t complain because it was exactly what he’d come to expect. This was how werewolves were treated.

“You should have been told,” Vanessa said. “Your Pack, that is.”

Nick shrugged and opened the rental car door. “We’ll handle it.”

They got into the car.

“It shouldn’t happen in the first place,” she said. “They’re redneck idiots. If they were human, they’d be out hunting illegal immigrants or small-time crooks. They just need an excuse.”

“Oh, I know. It’s not like werewolves have never done that themselves.” He started the car. “Historically, we hunted mutts—outside werewolves. They’d say it was to keep them in line, but really, the Pack wolves were like these guys. They wanted to hunt, so they came up with an excuse.”

Nick drove out of the parking spot. “We have a Pack member now whose dad was killed in a mutt hunt when he was fifteen. The hunters knew his father had a kid. Didn’t care. They wanted to kill him, too. He’s lucky he escaped.” He glanced over. “Want to guess who was in charge of that hunt?”

“Malcolm.”

“Yep. So that’s another Pack wolf we aren’t telling about his return. Too many folks lined up to kill the bastard already.” He reached the road and turned left. “Speaking of Malcolm, that’s my priority here. If Elena wants to come out and handle these losers, fine, but I’m guessing she’ll see it as a wild-goose chase. Easier to get to the root of it and work from there.”

“Find out who’s laying the bounties instead of hunting down three knuckleheads taking them.” Vanessa nodded. “She’s smart.”

“That’s why she’s Alpha. Our instinct is to hunt them down. But these days? There are other ways. The point, though, is that my goal is Malcolm, and his trail is warm. He came to Detroit to visit a contact, right?”

“Yes, from his days with the Nasts.”

“Then I’m going to pay a visit to his contact. You don’t need to come along. It’s been a long night, and after Tina …” He shrugged. “I can drop you at a hotel and check back with an update in the morning.”

“I should go along, as backup.”

He said nothing.

She continued, “I won’t interfere. After what happened to Tina, you’re in charge here. You’re the one who understands what we’re dealing with.”

“Then just tell me where we need to go.”

12. NICK

Before they reached their destination, Nick pulled over. He had to update Elena, and he wanted to do that in private. Vanessa had her own call to make. She’d texted Rhys, but her boss wanted to speak to her about getting Tina’s body back.

Nick had hated leaving Tina behind. At the very least, he’d wanted to hide her body, but the arrival of the hunters quashed that plan.

He left Vanessa in the car so they could make their respective calls.

Elena put him on speakerphone—she and Clay hadn’t gone to bed after he told them he was leaving for Detroit. Jeremy had taken the twins to Charleston, where Jaime was doing a show, so they didn’t have to worry about him overhearing.

“So it’s definitely Malcolm,” Clay said after Nick explained about finding Tina. “Good.”

Elena sighed. “What he means is, ‘Damn, it’s a shame Malcolm killed that poor woman.’ Did you know her well?”

“I’d met her. We had drinks. It’s harder on Vanessa. She’s holding up, though—she hasn’t had much time to process it.”

He told them about the bounty hunters.

“Son of a bitch,” Clay said. “Bounties? Here?”

“Vanessa said it happens.”

“And no one bothered to tell us?”

“I’ll raise a stink,” Elena said. “Right now, we need to make sure these guys don’t pick up your trail. Did they get a look at you?”

He told them what the bounty hunter had said.

“So he’s probably seen your picture somewhere,” Elena said.

Clay grunted. “Hopefully on a list of ‘werewolves you do not fuck with or you’ll bring the whole Pack down on your head.’”

“Hmm,” she said. “Did they seem to know you’re a werewolf?”

“No,” Nick said. “I’ll keep my eyes open, but they’re on Malcolm’s trail. Which is still inconvenient. They don’t stand a hope in hell of taking him down, but there’s always dumb luck.”

“You want me to hop in the car?” Clay asked.

Nick was about to answer when he realized it wasn’t him that Clay was asking.

“It’s up to Nick,” Elena said. “If he wants to get rid of Vanessa, you can back him. Rhys will squawk, but he doesn’t have much leverage here. He screwed up not letting Nick take over.”

“I’ll grab my bag,” Clay said.

“Hold on,” Nick said. “I didn’t answer yet.”

Clay made a noise, as if to say this was merely a formality. Of course Nick would want him there.

“Let’s wait,” Nick said. “We’ve got werewolf hunters in town, and you’re the most recognizable werewolf in the country.”

“So? They come after me, we end the problem.”

“And have three bodies to bury?” Elena said.

“Nah. One, maximum. I’ll just scare the shit out of them and make them realize this werewolf-hunting thing isn’t as much fun as they thought.”

“While Malcolm escapes?”

Silence.

“Fine,” Clay grunted. “But my bag is already packed. Find Malcolm. Then give me a call.”

“I will.”

They were in the suburbs, outside a house big enough to hold a family with five children and two dogs. As Nick surveyed the place from the idling car, he said, “So Malcolm’s contact doesn’t live alone.”

“Just him and his wife.”

“Kids grown?”

Vanessa shook her head. “No kids. He took advantage of a really bad real estate market.” She waved down the road. “Half these places are empty. Foreclosures everywhere.”

Which explained why the street was so dark. They’d driven through other neighborhoods that seemed to be thriving, but this—like that downtown street of vacancies—was what people thought of when you said “Detroit” these days. Nick looked at the huge house. It’d be less of a bargain when they were paying to keep it heated during a Michigan winter.

“Any idea which houses are empty?” he asked.

After a minute of flurried typing on her phone, Vanessa said, “I can tell you.”

“Direct me to one, and we’ll park there.”

13. NICK

They found an empty house, and Nick snapped the garage door lock and parked inside. Then they crossed backyards to the contact’s house.

The contact was Richard Stokes. A sorcerer, married to a half-demon named Sharon. According to Vanessa’s sources, Stokes worked for the Nasts as a hit man, which is how he’d gotten to know Malcolm. They’d done a few jobs together—the Nasts sending them out as tag-team assassins.

From all accounts, Malcolm did not like partners. His first two had suffered unfortunate and fatal accidents during their missions. Malcolm had barely bothered disguising what he’d done, and his excuses had been perfunctory at best. That was Malcolm flexing his muscles and nudging his boundaries, seeing how badly the Cabal wanted him.

With Stokes, the Nasts found a partnership model that worked, mainly because it wasn’t a partnership at all. Stokes figured out that Malcolm shouldn’t theoretically have a problem working with someone. Wolves were pack hunters. The issue was one of hierarchy. Stokes had let Malcolm take the lead, and it turned into a beautiful friendship. Or at least a functional working relationship.

In the Pack, every wolf who ran with Malcolm was never allowed to forget what a privilege that was. In the last decade, though, Malcolm had lacked his usual posse of sycophants. He’d had only one: Richard Stokes.

When Malcolm escaped, then, it wasn’t long before he’d showed up on Stokes’s doorstep demanding payment in services, information, and money. That put Stokes in a very ugly position. If the Nasts found out that he’d had contact with their valuable escapee, they’d kill him. If he ratted out his former partner, Malcolm would kill him. So Stokes had played both sides. He did help Malcolm. Meanwhile, he told the Nasts and got the Cabal to agree to let him keep aiding their escapee until Malcolm lowered his guard enough to be safely brought back in. A mole in the Nast Cabal had passed all that along to Rhys.

Now Nick and Vanessa were at the Stokeses’ back door, under cover of night, wearing gloves from Vanessa’s kit, evaluating the situation.

The dark house meant Stokes and his wife had gone to bed. Which made things easier. It did, however, increase the chance they’d startle the two and get hit with a combined blast of spell and half-demon power.

The first potential obstacle was a security system. Luckily, Vanessa had a device to detect if one had been installed, and the skills to disarm it. When the detection device came back negative, she hesitated.

“That doesn’t seem right,” she said. “Stokes is a professional killer. He knows the value of security.”

Nick shrugged. “Maybe he thinks being a hit man means he doesn’t need it.”

“Hmm.”

She picked the lock. It opened easily. In fact, the entire door opened, the deadbolt having been left unfastened. Nick looked at that and then craned his head through the doorway to see a security alarm, flashing green.

“Bolt not used, alarm turned off. Shit.” He stepped into the house and inhaled deeply. “I smell blood.”

Vanessa moved past him to survey the dark kitchen. Nick dropped to a crouch and inhaled again.

“Malcolm,” he murmured.

“Since we last saw him?”

“I can only judge the relative age of a trail, but it’s fresh, meaning it’s not from earlier.”

“All right, then. Let’s go see what he’s done.”

She lifted her gun and started forward. Then she stopped.

“Yep,” Nick said. “The guy with the nose and the night vision should lead the way.”

They reached the dining room door. Then Nick smelled something else. Burned meat. He turned back to the kitchen and sniffed, but there was no trace of the scent there.

“What’s wrong?” Vanessa mouthed.

He shook his head. If it was what it smelled like, he wasn’t telling her until it was absolutely necessary. He crept into the dining room. She covered him with her gun. He paused and inhaled, picking up only the smells of blood and burned flesh. He started forward again. He was approaching the next doorway when a board creaked. He stopped and glanced back at Vanessa. She was poised in the kitchen doorway—standing on ceramic tile.

Just as he lifted his foot, he heard the brush of a stockinged foot. It came from the left. He turned to see another doorway, this one with stairs beyond it. A second swish of fabric on wood. Too far away to be the hall. It must have come from the opposite side of the house.

As the noise came a third time, he remembered a similar sound, heard only a few hours ago. Tina dragging herself along the floor.

He could definitely smell blood. Had Malcolm repeated his trick?

He backed them into the kitchen and looked around. There was a second door, closed. He’d noted it earlier and presumed it led to the basement, but he should have checked. As soon as he looked in that direction, Vanessa cursed under her breath, as if chiding herself for the same thing. She motioned that she’d guard while he checked.

Nick cracked the door open. It led to a home office. Through it he could see a second door, leading to the other side of the house. That was where the noises came from.

Nick inhaled. A man’s scent permeated the office. Stokes’s scent. Strong. No hint of Malcolm’s.

He backed up and told Vanessa his plan.

14. NICK

Nick waited while Vanessa got in position. As he went back through the dining room, Vanessa shuffled loudly, announcing her position in hopes of luring their target in her direction.

Nick moved silently through to the front hall. The stairs were to his right, the entry door to his left. He paused and inhaled. Definitely more of Malcolm’s scent here. Two trails. One led back the way he’d come. The other went upstairs.

Nick slipped to the foot of the stairs. The stink of blood was stronger there and seemed to come from upstairs. He retreated. A leaded glass door opened into a formal living room. Malcolm’s trail didn’t cross its threshold. When Nick listened, though, he caught the brush of fabric on wood again, heading toward Vanessa.

He cracked open the leaded glass and inhaled. No recent scent other than the homeowners’. No blood, either. Yet he did detect the burned flesh smell, which gave him pause. Either Richard or Sharon Stokes was here, injured and moving toward Vanessa. That burned smell …

Although Sharon Stokes was a half-demon, her power was minor hearing enhancement, not fire. Which meant the smell … Nick didn’t want to consider what that meant.

He eased through the doorway and crossed the big living room. On the other side, if his calculations were right, lay the home office.

Nick moved on the far side of the half-open office door, where he couldn’t be spotted. The room had gone silent. Every few minutes, Vanessa would make a soft, seemingly accidental sound. But when she did, there was no answering sound from the office, which seemed to confirm his suspicion. Whoever they were dealing with wasn’t in any shape to deal with them.

He reached the half-open door and angled for a glance through. No sign of a figure. His gaze dropped. There were a few hard-to-see spots, but he could make out enough to be sure someone wasn’t lying on the floor.

He definitely smelled Stokes, though. So where was he?

Nick’s gaze surveyed the floor. Then he spotted an area of darkness beside the desk, with a sleeve protruding from it, the rest of the body tucked back in the shadows.

One last glance around, and then he zipped toward the desk, ready to find—

It was a sweater that had fallen off the back of the chair.

A faint click behind him. Nick wheeled as a closet door swung open. He dove, and a bullet hit the wall beside him. The gun fired again while Nick lunged. The bullet sliced through the back of his shirt as he dropped and hit his assailant. Another shot. This one from across the room. His attacker fell over him, his gun sailing off to the side. Vanessa snatched it up as Nick pounced on his fallen foe.

The man had twisted as he fell and now lay on his stomach. Blood seeped from his right sleeve, where Vanessa’s bullet had hit his arm.

“It’s Stokes,” Vanessa said. “Grab his hands so he can’t cast.”

A sorcerer cast with a combination of words and gestures. If the guy knew any witch magic, though, restraining him wouldn’t help. As Nick caught the man’s hands, he braced for a spoken spell, but Stokes only grunted in pain when Nick yanked on his injured arm.

Why hadn’t Stokes cast earlier? Sure, he had a gun, but a trained killer would use every weapon in his arsenal, and there were sorcerer spells like knockbacks and blurs that would have made Stokes’s closet attack much more effective.

Then there was that smell … Even stronger now, as Nick pinned Stokes. One split second of What did Malcolm do? passed through his mind. Then he knew. And his stomach clenched.

He grabbed Stokes by the shoulder and flipped him over. The man didn’t react to the pain now. Nick could see why he’d barely reacted after the shot. His eyes were glazed over. Dulled by painkillers. There was blood on his mouth. And that burned smell blasted out on his breath.

Vanessa walked over, gun still trained. “Were you expecting someone else tonight, Richard? Is that why your alarm was off? You were lying in wait for Malcolm?”

“Malcolm’s already been here,” Nick said. “And Stokes can’t answer. Malcolm cut out his tongue.”

Vanessa rocked back before catching herself. She quickly recovered but couldn’t mask the horror in her eyes.

“For snitching,” she murmured. “He cut it out for snitching.”

“With the added bonus that it robs Stokes of his power.”

He released Stokes’s hands and started to rise. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something flash. A knife. Nick wheeled, but Vanessa was already in motion, grabbing Stokes’s wrist, her fingers blazing. Stokes let out a grunt, more surprise than pain, as he dropped the knife. Before Nick could react, Vanessa had Stokes pinned on his stomach again, hands behind his back. She motioned for Nick to hold them while she used plastic cuffs.

“You’re fast,” he said.

A shaky laugh. “My field skills are coming back. Slowly.”

“We aren’t here to hurt you, Stokes,” Nick said. “Malcolm’s gone. We’re on his tail.”

Hate blazed through the man’s drug-bleary eyes. This wasn’t an innocent victim, Nick reminded himself. As much as that horrible injury made him want to feel pity, Stokes almost certainly deserved it. From what Vanessa had said, he’d made a very good partner for Malcolm. Equally vicious and ruthless.

“I’m—” Nick began to introduce himself, but Stokes cut him short with a guttural growl.

Stokes jabbed his chin at the desk and, with his hands bound, managed to mimic writing. Nick got a paper and pen.

“You’re right-handed, I take it?” Vanessa said.

He nodded. She undid the cuff and tied his left hand to the desk leg. He didn’t like that—clearly he expected to sit up and write his message—but after some glowers failed to move Vanessa he snatched the page and started to scribble a message. He wrote it in a combination of text and haphazard shorthand that Nick deciphered as: Want my help? Find my wife. He hurts her? I’ll hunt you down and do worse than cut out your goddamned tongues.

“Charming,” Vanessa said. “Your bravado is admirable, Stokes, but you’re an idiot if you think you should threaten someone with a gun at your head.”

He scrawled, Find my wife or no Malcolm. I’ll hunt him down, and you’ll never find him.

“All right,” Vanessa said. “So Malcolm took your wife—”

He cut her short with a wave and wrote, He said someone would come for him, and if I didn’t kill whoever came …

He stopped there. Nick didn’t care to imagine what Malcolm said he’d do to Sharon Stokes. The look in Stokes’s eyes was enough. As soon as he read the words, though, Nick stopped and looked up, toward the second floor, and that sick feeling in his gut returned.

Shit. Oh, shit. He wouldn’t …

Hell, yes. He absolutely would.

“Did you see Malcolm leave with your wife?” Nick asked.

The haunted pain in Stokes’s eyes vanished in a snap, his lip curling as if to say, “What a fucking pointless question.”

Nick repeated it and waved at the pad. Stokes wrote, pen strokes hard now, anger and frustration mounting.

If you’re asking if I stood at the fucking window and saw which way they went—

“No, I’m …” Nick struggled for a way to word the question that wouldn’t reveal his suspicion. “Malcolm did that to you. And then what? Was your wife with him? Was she conscious? Did he drag her out? I’m a werewolf, and I need some idea of what kind of trail I’m looking for. Walk me through it—quickly—so I can go after them.”

Stokes still simmered, and it was obvious he considered Nick a flaming idiot, but that idiot was the guy he was counting on to bring his wife back alive. He wrote quickly, the words nearly illegible in his haste.

Broke in. Knocked her out. Knew I’d been talking to the Nasts. Said I set him up. Told me what he’d do if I didn’t kill whoever came here after him. Then he cut out my tongue and cauterized it. I passed out. When I woke, they were gone.

Taking Stokes’s wife was too much trouble. That was the problem. One Nick wasn’t about to explain to this mutilated killer, seething with rage, frantic for his wife’s safety.

“I need to go upstairs,” Nick said to Vanessa.

Now Stokes didn’t bother with the paper. He didn’t need to. Nick could decipher his garbled words just fine.

“What the fuck? No. Fucking no,” Stokes said as he jabbed his free hand at the door, telling them to go, get on his wife’s trail, bring her back.

“I really need to go upstairs,” Nick said. “To check her scent.”

Fresh dismay in Vanessa’s eyes told him she knew what he was really checking.

As Nick headed up the stairs, the smell of blood grew stronger. He could tell himself it was from cutting off Stokes’s tongue. It wasn’t. The smell was much too strong for that.

The stairs led to a wide hall with four doors plus a double set that presumably led to a linen closet. Nick went through the open door first. The master bedroom, stinking of fear and sweat and blood and burned flesh. This was where Malcolm had done it, surprising the couple as they slept.

The sheets were soaked in blood. On the floor lay the remains of Stokes’s tongue, tossed aside. Nick walked to the bed. While it was a lot of blood, it wasn’t enough for what he’d smelled.

Nick backed out and checked the double doors. As he expected, it was a linen closet—a walk-in one, but still small enough to search with a visual sweep. The next door led to a spare bedroom that smelled as if it’d never been used. A bathroom was next. Also empty. Then the third bedroom, which seemed to be a second office, smelling of Sharon Stokes. No blood, though.

Nick returned to the hall and looked around. He could mentally map out the upper level and tell that all space was accounted for. The blood, however, was not.

He walked to the middle of the hall, trying to pinpoint the location of the scent, but it seemed to come from all directions. He crouched again, to follow Malcolm’s trail. As soon as he bent, the smell grew fainter. He rose. Stronger.

Nick looked up. There, in the ceiling, was an attic door. Nick went to the linen closet and found a hook hanging on the wall. He used it to snag the strap on the attic door. It opened, steps sliding down.

15. NICK

As Nick climbed those steps, there was no doubt the blood scent came from up there. The attic was nearly pitch-dark, though, and he had to pause for his eyes to adjust to the light coming from the hall below.

The attic was empty. Completely empty. Nick didn’t have to move from the top of the steps to scan the entirety of the massive open space. And to assure himself there was nothing up here except the smell of blood.

As soon as he walked into the attic, he spotted the blood pool, glistening on the dust-covered floor. When his footsteps subsided, he picked up a sound. A very soft plink. Then silence.

He circled the blood pool. It was perfectly formed, with no sign that whoever bled here had crawled or been taken away. Yet there was clearly not a body.

Plink.

This time he saw the drop hit the pool. He looked up and saw only the black roofline above. When he blinked, his night vision adjusted and—

Sharon Stokes. Spread-eagled on the ceiling, her throat and wrists bloodied.

Nick took out his phone and shone the light up at Sharon’s body. Only then could he see how she’d been fastened there, and when he did, his stomach lurched. He lowered the light and noticed the tools hidden in the shadow by the wall. A nail gun and a ladder.

Malcolm nailed her to the ceiling, cut her throat, and let her bleed out, hanging there.

Had she regained consciousness? God, Nick hoped not.

He stared up at that body, and there was part of him that couldn’t quite believe it. Yes, the Malcolm he’d known was a sadistic son of a bitch, but this? And cutting out Stokes’s tongue? What had the Nasts done to him? Nick wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Nick found Vanessa and Stokes where he’d left them. Stokes lay on his back, both hands fastened again. Vanessa stood over him with her gun.

“Your wife’s gone,” Nick said.

Stokes screwed up his face, and Nick knew what he’d say if he could. Of course she’s gone, you fucking moron. That’s what I told you.

“I mean she’s dead. Malcolm killed her before he left.”

Stokes went still. Then his face hardened as he bucked up, managing to get to his knees.

As soon as Stokes pushed to his feet, he lunged at Nick. Vanessa grabbed his bound hands and yanked him back. He shook her off and settled for glaring at Nick with all the hate he could muster as he mouthed, “Liar.”

“I wish I was,” Nick said. “But think about it. Is Malcolm really going to bother taking a hostage? All that mattered was convincing you to kill us for him.”

He could see in Stokes’s hesitation that he knew Nick was right. He just didn’t want to believe it.

“Where is she?” Stokes mouthed.

When Nick didn’t answer fast enough, Stokes figured it out and turned toward the living room. Nick moved to swing into Stokes’s path, but Vanessa stopped him.

“Let him go,” she murmured. “He’s not giving us what we need until he sees for himself.”

“I know.” Nick lowered his voice. “But he shouldn’t see her like that.”

Nick broke into a jog to catch up with Stokes, already cresting the top of the stairs.

“Let me bring her to you,” Nick called as he loped up behind him.

Stokes was on the extended attic steps. When Nick grabbed for his pant leg, Stokes wheeled and kicked. Nick caught his leg. Stokes yanked, managing to keep his balance with his bound hands again but ready to topple.

“Let him go,” Vanessa said again.

Nick wanted to haul Stokes’s ass down those stairs, pin him on the damned floor, and tell him he wasn’t seeing his wife that way. That no matter what a vicious asshole Stokes was, he obviously loved his wife, and that shouldn’t be his final memory of her.

But Elena would agree with Vanessa. Their goal was Malcolm, and his trail was cooling fast.

Nick released Stokes. The man stumbled up the stairs. He flipped a switch with his teeth, and a row of lights flickered on as Nick climbed the steps. Stokes saw the blood immediately. He walked to it, gaze tripping across the floor, looking for Sharon. When he reached the edge of that perfect puddle, he turned and glared at Nick as if to say, “Where the hell is she?”

Nick crossed his arms and glared back. Beside him, Vanessa inhaled sharply. Stokes heard. He looked at Vanessa and followed her gaze.

Silence. Ten long seconds of silence. Then Stokes screamed, a horrible, wordless scream of rage. He wheeled on Nick and stood there, bristling like an enraged boar.

“Get her down,” he mouthed as he gestured.

“Fuck you,” Nick said.

Stokes charged. Nick slammed him in the gut and sent him flying, coughing and choking. He hit the floor. Nick advanced on him as he rose.

“I told you she was dead. I offered to get her down before you saw her. I’m not doing it now. If you want revenge, tell us whatever you can about Malcolm. Then we’ll cut you loose, and you can get her down.”

Stokes snarled and raged, but Nick didn’t budge. Despite being bound at gunpoint, Stokes clearly considered himself the Alpha here. Nick was an idiot. Vanessa was a woman. They’d damn well better jump when he said jump. And if they did, he’d see no reason to give them what they wanted.

So Nick watched Stokes rage and waited, until his anger and grief began to sputter.

“Let me repeat myself,” Nick said. “You tell us what we want. We let you go. Otherwise, we walk out of here, and I pick up Malcolm’s trail on my own, and you can figure out how the hell you’re going to call for help without the use of your hands or tongue.”

Stokes struggled in his cuffs, but Vanessa had bound him well.

Nick turned for the hatch. Stokes lunged at him. Nick spun, caught him in the gut with another right, and left him on the floor, heaving for breath.

They made it halfway down the main stairs before Stokes came after them.

16. NICK

They let Stokes sit at the desk and type the full story on his laptop. As they knew, Malcolm had come by earlier that day. He wanted Stokes’s help, though he’d insisted he was offering Stokes an opportunity. Stokes played along.

Malcolm needed money. He’d mooched some from Stokes already, but he was smart enough to see that income stream wouldn’t last forever. So he’d found a job on his own. Malcolm had called it assassin work; Stokes called it thug work.

The job was lucrative, though. Stokes had asked for details and said he’d consider it. They made plans to meet the next day. Then Malcolm left the house, with Tina on his tail, and that’s when it all went wrong.

While Stokes didn’t know where Malcolm was staying, he listed a few hotels of the sort Malcolm favored these days, upper end but not luxurious, balancing his budget with his ego. He provided the make of the car Malcolm was driving, but he was certain Malcolm would have ditched it by now. Stokes had taught him a few things about being a hired killer.

They asked for details about the job then, as another route to Malcolm.

West-coast client, Stokes typed. No name. Sorcerer. Suspect he runs a cut-rate Cabal-wannabe operation.

Nick looked at Vanessa.

“There are a few dozen of them,” she said. “Anything from million-dollar operations to borderline street gangs.”

Expect this one to be in the middle, Stokes wrote. Up-and-comers. Malcolm said—

Stokes stopped. Nick looked toward the window, where he could pick up the distant wail of a siren. He’d been too preoccupied to notice the faint sound sooner.

Vanessa motioned subtly for Nick to check it out. “Keep going,” she said to Stokes. “What did Malcolm say?”

Nick walked through to the next room. He could pick up the sirens better.

“Ambulance,” he called back softly. “Maybe a midnight heart attack. I’ll take a look.”

It was impossible to get any kind of wide view from the front windows. Nick walked to the front door. The outside lights had been on when they arrived. He flicked them off and eased open the door. He could hear the siren, coming steadily closer. And more now, the growl of engines and the rumble of tires. More than one vehicle. There was a second siren too.

Was that a fire engine?

Uh, yeah. What was the chance of a fire in the neighborhood right now?

Pretty good … if Malcolm set it to draw attention to Stokes’s house. To frame his former partner for murder.

But that was a roundabout way of doing things. Malcolm was never roundabout. If that’s what he wanted to do, he’d just call and report someone was seriously injured—

“Shit!”

Nick raced back into the house. As he did, he heard Vanessa tell Stokes to “Sit your ass down in that chair.” He hurried through the living room. Vanessa was arguing with Stokes, her back to Nick, gun pointed at Stokes, who was standing.

“We need to—” Nick began.

She glanced over her shoulder. Stokes tensed. Before Nick could say a word, Vanessa had twisted back to her target, but Stokes was already in flight. Stokes grabbed her in a choke hold and went for the gun.

She flipped the chamber open, emptying the gun so deftly that Nick heard the cartridges hit the ground at the same time he saw her toss the gun aside. Then she clamped down on Stokes’s arm with ten blazing fingers. He snarled, but either the painkillers hadn’t worn off or he just didn’t give a shit.

Stokes backed up, his arm tightening around Vanessa’s neck, her eyes bulging. Nick could smell her fingers burning into his arm, but he didn’t relax his hold until Nick had him in a choke hold of his own.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Nick said. “The cops are on their way. Malcolm called them in. We’re trying to save your ass.”

Vanessa wrenched free, gasping as she spoke. “He doesn’t want to be saved. He wants us to decide he’s too much trouble and put him down.”

She struggled to catch her breath. “His wife is dead upstairs. He knows Malcolm will have framed him as his final revenge—hopefully exacted after Stokes has helpfully killed us. But his timing was a little off.”

Nick gave Stokes a shove. “You need to run.”

Vanessa grabbed her gun and slapped it back together as she asked, “How far off are they?”

“Maybe a couple of blocks. We’ll need to—”

Stokes snatched the knife from earlier. Nick wheeled, ready to block his attack. Only he didn’t attack. He drew the knife back and plunged it into his heart.

When Nick lunged for him, Vanessa grabbed the back of his shirt.

“He was going to do it,” she said. “It was just a question of whether he took us along.”

“But the cops wouldn’t have thought he cut out his own tongue.”

“Doesn’t matter. Malcolm wasn’t letting him walk out of this. Let’s just hope we can.”

The ambulance had indeed stopped at the Stokes house. So had two police cruisers. The cops had gone in first and called to the paramedics, presumably when they found Stokes dying on the study floor.

“Wait,” Vanessa said. “Wait …”

Nick could point out that he hadn’t given any indication that he planned to do anything except wait. They were in the yard behind the Stokes house, waiting for a chance to run through the rear yards to the car. The trick here was to time their departure just right.

One pair of officers had already circled the property. A perfunctory search. Stokes had obviously stabbed himself. It wouldn’t even be clear that there’d been an intruder until they realized their victim was missing his tongue.

The officers had gone, but Vanessa still held off, making sure they didn’t pop back out to check something.

“Still clear?” she whispered.

“Yep.”

“All right, then. Let’s go.”

Nick steered them through this yard and the next. There were fences to scale and it was obvious Vanessa was out of practice, but she didn’t pretend otherwise, letting Nick help her as they went.

At the halfway point, Nick stayed on the fence after he’d helped Vanessa down. He rose, balancing, to get a look back at the Stokes house. It wasn’t a clear angle, but he could see enough of the road to be sure no new emergency vehicles had joined the others. As he readied himself to jump down, though, he saw two police cars pass.

Nick crouched on the fence until the cars pulled in with the others. Two detectives went inside. Two uniforms stayed on the front lawn.

He jumped down and told Vanessa.

“They’re guarding against curious neighbors,” she said. “They may have shut off the lights and siren, but people will have heard the vehicles. Any minute now, every occupied home here will have someone peering out, trying to see what’s going on. Which means we need to move. Fast. Nosy neighbors are worse than cops.”

They jogged across the back of the yards, and got through two before it seemed as if half the neighborhood lit up. When a door opened, they dove behind a shed.

“Go on,” a voice muttered, thick with sleep. “Be quick about it, Mitzie.”

Nick swore.

Vanessa whispered, “We’re fine. City pets are used to people nearby, and any pooch named Mitzie isn’t going to be a world-class guard dog.”

“Which doesn’t matter when one of us is a werewolf,” Nick whispered back.

He’d barely finished before the dog started wailing louder than a police siren. Vanessa was right about one thing—Mitzie was no guard dog. She’d caught one whiff of Nick and started throwing herself against the door to be let back in before the monster devoured her.

“Take the lead,” he whispered to Vanessa.

She scaled the rear fence, which left them blocked by the shed. A door opened, Mitzie’s owner muttering, “What the hell?” as the dog barreled inside. The door shut, but as soon as Nick topped the fence, a deck light turned on in the yard he was climbing into.

“Go!” he called down to Vanessa.

Nick jumped. A muffled shout from inside the house told him he’d been spotted. He made a run for it—in the opposite direction. Back over the back fence. Then through the yard where Mitzie’s owner had, thankfully, retreated indoors to tend to his distraught pet. Hop the next fence. And then circle around into the yard of the empty house where they’d parked.

Vanessa had the car running and the garage door up. He raced to the passenger side and jumped in.

“Go!” he said.

“That neighbor saw you run into this yard,” she said. “If we back out now—”

“I went the other way around.” He rolled down the window. “The witness will tell the cops I ran toward the Stokes house. Now go.”

17. NICK

With the headlights off, the car rolled down the driveway. Once they were sure no cruisers were ripping after them, Nick pulled his knee up, rubbing his calf and wincing.

“I think I pulled something back there,” he said. “Five fences in five minutes. I’m too old for that shit.”

Vanessa gave a shaky laugh. “Five fences in twenty minutes was too much for me. I’ve been too old for this shit for a while. Out of practice, too. I need to get out in the field more. I can’t believe Stokes got the jump on me back there.”

“You handled it,” Nick said. “And he is a professional killer.”

She screwed up her nose as if to say that wasn’t an excuse. Nick watched her as she drove, her gaze fixed ahead. She was a beautiful woman … which was almost certainly not what should be going through his mind at this moment.

Vanessa cast an anxious glance in the rearview mirror.

“I’ll hear anyone coming after us,” Nick said. “My window’s cracked open.”

“I know.”

“We’re fine.” He paused. “Relatively speaking.”

She gave a tight laugh and loosened her death grip on the wheel, flexing her hands, only to squeeze it again with both hands, her gaze staring into the night.

“You know what we need?” he said. “A drink.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Think we can find one at”—he checked his watch—“three-thirty in the morning?”

She glanced over. “You’re serious?”

“I am. We’ve made our getaway. We aren’t going to track down Malcolm tonight. We need to rest and convey our updates to our respective bosses. And then we need a drink. Or three.”

Her laugh loosened then, as did her grip on the wheel. “If you really are serious, I won’t argue. I’m sure we could find a corner store and grab—”

A phone buzzed.

“Speaking of bosses,” Nick said. “That must be yours.”

“Um, no. When I’m in the field, I don’t even put it on vibrate.”

“Well, mine is on vibrate and …”

He trailed off as they looked at each other. Nick whipped around, clicking his seat belt off as he looked in the backseat. The phone kept ringing. He pinpointed the sound, coming from under his seat. He reached down, feeling around until his fingers touched plastic.

He pulled the phone out. A blocked number showed on the screen. He was about to answer when Vanessa grabbed the phone from him and yanked the wheel, braking hard, but not before the car lurched up over the curb.

“Out!” she said. “Now!”

She scrambled out. He followed. The phone kept ringing. Then, as the car doors slammed shut behind him, the ringing grew muffled, and he realized she’d left the phone in the car. She prodded him until they were fifty feet away.

“Cell phones are used to set off bombs,” she said before he could ask.

They stood on the curb and watched the car, still running. They were on the edges of the suburb now. A lone truck slowed as it approached. Vanessa waved her own cell phone, telling him it was fine, they’d called a tow truck.

The other phone kept ringing.

“We’re assuming Malcolm put it in there, right?” Nick said. “That he was watching Stokes’s house and planted the phone, and I was in too big a hurry jumping into the car to notice his scent in the garage. Is there any other explanation?”

“No. It’s Malcolm.”

“Okay, then I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s not a bomb. He’d never use one.”

Vanessa shook her head, gaze still trained on the car. “Anyone can adapt—”

“Not Malcolm. He really is an old dog. Using a bomb is a trick he couldn’t learn even if he wanted to, and believe me, he wouldn’t want to.”

The phone stopped ringing. A few seconds of silence passed. Another car slowed. Vanessa waved it on. The phone started again.

“He’s trying to make contact,” Nick said. “That’s his style. Engage the enemy.” He looked around. “And the alternative is that we leave the car running, with our stuff in it, and walk away.” He looked at her. “You stay here while I check the phone—”

“No. I might be able to tell if it’s been tampered with.”

Nick followed her back to the car. She flung open the passenger side then backpedaled, as if ready to dive aside. When no explosion came, she retrieved the phone and ran from the car. When they got fifty feet away again, Vanessa held the phone out gingerly, turning it over in her hands as it continued to ring.

“Stand back,” she said. “Please.”

Nick did, only because he knew she wouldn’t answer otherwise. Once he was about ten feet away, she hit the talk button.

“Hello.”

Nick could hear the voice on the other end, and it was as chilling as picking up Malcolm’s scent, like being sucked into a time warp back to a place you’d rather never visit again.

“Please put Nicholas on the phone,” Malcolm said.

“I don’t know who you—”

“I was in your car. I smelled him. I’m sure he’s right there. Just look around. Handsome fellow. Terribly charming. Not terribly bright.”

Nick resisted the urge to scowl at that. If—like Stokes—Malcolm considered Nick an idiot, it would only make him easier to catch.

Vanessa looked at Nick. He held out his hand.

“Hello, Malcolm,” he said into the phone.

“Nicky. How are you, boy?”

Not exactly a boy anymore, but Nick knew that wasn’t what Malcolm meant. Like the diminutive, it was meant to put Nick in his place.

“So where is he?” Malcolm asked.

“Where’s who?”

Malcolm laughed. “Are you that dense, boy? Your partner-in-crime. The brains and the brawn.”

“If you mean Clay, he’s at home. Probably sleeping.”

Another laugh, infused with impatience now. “There’s no way he’d send his pup out alone. I remember when you were boys, how you followed him around, just like a puppy. And as helpless as one. Clayton’s not only your friend—he’s your protector. If you’re there, he’s nearby. Guaranteed.”

“Would you like to wager on it?” Nick paused. “I’ve got a new car back home. A Jag. I remember you liked Jags. Mine’s top-of-the-line. If Clay’s here, you can have it. I bet you’d like that. Not a lot of fancy cars in your life these days.”

Silence.

“Yes,” Nick said. “Clay looked after me when I was young, because he was a full werewolf long before I was. And, yes, that’s not the only reason. I’m not my father. I’m not a warrior. But I’m not a boy anymore, either, and neither is Clay. His mate is the Alpha. He has children. Do you really think he’s going to come running after you? Do you really think you’re worth it?”

More silence. Then a laugh. “Yes, I do, because I saw his face at Nast headquarters. He’s not going to let me live out my retirement in peace.”

“No, he’s going to kill you. But first you need to be found, and that’s really more trouble than he’s willing to expend on you.”

More silence as Malcolm seethed. Vanessa motioned he might not want to antagonize Malcolm, but Nick knew what he was doing. No way in hell would Malcolm leave town if Clay wasn’t here. Running from Nick Sorrentino would just be humiliating.

“Clay may have given you his grunt work,” Malcolm said after a minute. “But he’ll show up. You’re in over your head.”

“Slaughtering humans is par for the course with you, Malcolm. Unless you’ve got a posse at your command, you like easy prey.”

“Oh, it isn’t me you need to worry about, Nicky. It’s the guys on the other end of the GPS in that phone you’re holding.”

Nick went quiet.

Malcolm chuckled. “That shut you up. Let me help, or you’ll be there all night figuring it out. Those three werewolf hunters you saw earlier are just one team on the prowl. There are two others, and they’re all in Detroit. And someone has helpfully provided them with the GPS in that phone. So you have two choices. Either you run back home to Daddy or you call Clayton and his bitch to come rescue you. Because otherwise—”

Tires squealed a couple of blocks over.

“In the car!” Nick said as he smacked the phone off. He drew his arm back to pitch the cell, but Vanessa grabbed his elbow. “They’re tracking the GPS,” he said. “He gave it to the werewolf hunters. Three teams of them.”

She took the phone from him. “Then we’ll have better luck throwing them off track with this. Get in and drive.”

18. NICK

Nick peeled off the curb and hit the gas, but it wasn’t exactly the sort of car he was used to, and when he looked into his rearview mirror, he could see a pickup bearing down on them.

“I’ve got their license number,” Vanessa said. “That’ll help later for ID, but right now, we need to lose them. Stay on the straightaway.”

“But they’re gaining—”

“This is no deserted back road. They’ll follow until they can find a place to push us off the street. Just give me two minutes to scramble this.”

“Scramble?”

“The signal. That won’t help with these guys, but it’ll keep the other teams from catching up.”

The truck got about three car lengths behind them and stayed there. While the road wasn’t busy, the occasional other vehicle meant their pursuers weren’t taking a chance. They were waiting for Nick to make his getaway by veering down a quiet side road.

“And … got it,” Vanessa said. “They’ll still see a GPS signal, but it’ll send them on a wild-goose chase. Can you lose these guys?”

“In this car?”

She chuckled. “It’s not a Jag, but there’s a distinct advantage to having an ordinary car—it’ll be much easier to lose them. Do you want to switch spots?”

He glanced over.

“We can do it,” she said. “I have before. Mid-car-chase driver switch.” A flashed grin. “It’s fun.”

“I’m fine with driving. You navig—”

The truck shot forward, narrowing the gap between them.

“Damn it,” Vanessa said, twisting to watch the truck. “The idiots are getting restless. Can you go any faster?”

“I can. But that’s the problem.” He waved at the red light ahead—with cars going through.

“Make a hard right at the light. Join the traffic flow. Try not to hit anyone.”

The last part was the toughest. The road ahead wasn’t jam-packed, but it wasn’t empty either.

“Nick! Brace—!”

The pickup bumped them. Nick smacked against the seat belt. He hit the accelerator. The light ahead was still red, with no sign it’d turn green anytime soon. Nick played with the acceleration, easing back and jolting forward, judging the traffic flow ahead, trying to gauge …

He hit the gas. There was a split second where the engine hesitated, as if to say, “You want me to do what?” Then it revved, and while they didn’t exactly fly back in their seats, the car did accelerate, engine whining.

Nick glanced over his shoulder. He could see the driver’s face, screwed up in confusion, the passenger’s eyes wide, mouth open as he said something, likely some variation of “Slow the fuck down!” as they barreled toward the intersection.

“You need to slow—” Vanessa began.

“Got it.”

“You can’t take the turn—”

“Hold on.”

He gauged the traffic flow, slowing just a little. Behind him, he could hear the pickup’s passengers shouting, “He’s going through! Goddamn it, Ted, don’t you dare follow—!”

Nick braked hard, sending the car into a skid and then steering out and around the corner, wide enough to make a car in the opposite lane veer. He heard the other driver yell an obscenity. Completely unwarranted, considering that Nick probably saved the guy’s life, because as the driver veered, he also slowed, and the guy in the pickup—still thinking Nick was going straight through—kept going, narrowly avoiding a T-bone.

There was still plenty of honking, and a squeal of tires. Nick accelerated again, zooming up on a transport. He weaved to see past it. Then he swerved into the opposite lane—and into the headlights of an oncoming car.

“You don’t have time—!” Vanessa began.

Nick hit the gas. She was right—he didn’t have time. But presuming the person at the wheel wasn’t asleep, the oncoming car would brake. Which it did, tires protesting as Nick’s car veered in front of the transport. Both the oncoming car and the truck laid on their horns.

Nick put the pedal down again, passing the next car and then making a sharp right at the light and another at the next, taking them back the way they’d come. He crossed the first road they’d originally been on and continued into the night, the pickup long gone.

“You can drive.” Vanessa grinned over at him, eyes sparkling, and for a second he knew she’d forgotten the horror of the night.

“So, do I get that drink now?” she asked.

“Several. I think we’ve earned them.”

They continued in silence for a few minutes. Then she said, “I need to call Rhys.”

“And I need to call Elena. Just let me get where we’re going.”

“Which is …?”

“Someplace we can get a drink.”

She smiled and relaxed in her seat. They reached the highway, and she watched out the window, saying nothing for about five minutes, and then, “We need a plan.”

“I know. Just … let’s rest a bit.”

Nick left the highway two exits before their turnoff, intentionally. He glanced over, waiting for her to ask where they were headed, but she had her eyes closed. When she opened them ten minutes later, she shot forward in her seat.

“Why are we at the airport?” she said.

“Getting a drink. If anything’s open. Then getting you on the first plane home.”

She twisted to face him. “Hell, no. You’re not—”

“Yep, I am.”

“If this is because Stokes got the jump—”

“It’s not.” Nick pulled into the parking garage. “We’re chasing a psychopath who’ll grab you the first chance he gets. Then he’ll kill you—horribly—to teach me a lesson.”

Her face hardened. “I’m not some date you brought along—”

“I know that.” He pulled into a spot. “You’re accustomed to bad guys who will kill you if you get in their way. But that’s not Malcolm. He knows I’m with a woman, and he’s going to target you because, if you die, I’ll blame myself. That’s how he operates. He kills those who don’t matter. And he hurts those who do. He will come after you.”

“Then we’ll know how to catch him.”

“No.”

Vanessa sat there, poised, as if waiting for him to elaborate.

He looked her in the eye. “No.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to split up and do this on our own. You call Elena and have her send Clay. I’ll get Jayne and a few others, and we’ll go after Malcolm separately. Then we’ll pray it doesn’t turn into a huge cluster-fuck, attacking each other and those damned werewolf hunters, while Malcolm circles until he can take out Clayton.”

“After that fight at Nast headquarters, Malcolm knows Clay will—and can—take him down. The minute Clay’s here, he’ll bolt. Elena knows that. She won’t send him.”

“So she’ll come out herself? Even better. Malcolm would love that. You said he likes to hurt his enemies.”

Nick shook his head. “You’re not drawing me into this argument, Vanessa. Stay or go. Your choice, but only because I can’t force you onto a plane.”

He left her the keys and got his bag from the trunk. Vanessa caught up with him halfway to the parking garage exit.

“I’m not trying to be a pain in the ass, Nick,” she said. “But this guy killed my agent, and that gives me a reason to go after him. I can do that with my own people, but I’d really rather do it with you. You know Malcolm. Bring in whoever you want, and I’ll work with them, too. But I have experience and tools that your people don’t. Like checking for a security system or scrambling that phone signal.”

“I don’t want to take responsibility—”

“You’re not bringing me. You’re teaming up with me.”

When he didn’t respond, she said, “How about I call Rhys? Get his word on this. If he wants to recall me, he can.”

He stopped walking. “Fine. You’ll make that call here, where I can hear both sides. But before that, I’ll phone Elena. If she insists we split up, I have to do that.”

“Understood.”

19. VANESSA

Vanessa went into the terminal and used the restroom while Nick phoned Elena. She could have also placed an advance call to Rhys to tell him what was up, maybe even massage the facts to be sure he’d let her stay. Nick hadn’t foreseen that because he wasn’t underhanded by nature. She’d given her word. He expected her to stick to it. So she’d honor that trust.

When she got back, Nick was done his call. Elena had agreed to let Vanessa help him, if that’s what Rhys wanted. In the meantime, Elena was driving to Detroit with Clay, ready to jump in the moment Nick needed them.

Elena’s decision didn’t surprise Vanessa. If Malcolm did go after Vanessa? Well, let’s be perfectly objective here. That was better than risking Nick or any of her Pack. And in coming after Vanessa, he’d get close enough for Nick to act. A cold hard assessment. And the same one Vanessa would make if an outsider volunteered to assist a member of her team.

Vanessa called Rhys next. She admitted Stokes got the jump on her, since she’d have to put that in her report. He said the same thing that Nick had—Stokes was a trained killer, and she’d handled it fine. If she was comfortable staying, then she could stay. Like Elena, though, he wasn’t sitting back to wait for an update call. Jayne and Rhys were both coming out. Like Elena and Clayton, they’d hang back and wait for a distress call.

When Rhys said he’d wait for a distress call, he meant it—part of her kit was a short-range SOS alert with a GPS. Now that someone would be in range soon, she was expected to wear it.

It was not easy to find alcohol at five in the morning. Apparently, state liquor laws meant that even the corner stores stopped selling it at 2 a.m. Or they did for most people. Nick sussed out a store with a thirty-something woman behind the counter, asked Vanessa to stay in the car, went in, and came out with alcohol.

It wouldn’t have been a hard sell. Even after a night of narrow escapes and filthy buildings, all it had taken was five minutes in a restroom for Nick to look like he’d stepped off a magazine cover. Vanessa was sure with only a modicum of charm—and perhaps a generous bribe—he’d been able to convince the clerk to break the rules for him.

Before he’d gone into the store, Nick had asked what she drank and she’d joked about missing her nightly gimlet. In all seriousness, she said a fifth of gin and a bottle of 7UP would be fine. At the hotel, she discovered he’d grabbed good gin and a packet of Rose’s lime mix. Vanessa suspected he’d looked up the recipe on his cell phone. A guy considerate enough to do that for someone he didn’t particularly seem to care for? Well, they didn’t make many men like that in Vanessa’s world, which only made the “didn’t particularly seem to care for her” part all that much harsher.

When they’d gotten on that plane together, she’d known he’d rather be with just about anyone else. His opinion seemed to have improved since then, but she suspected she’d have had to work very hard for it to get worse. Since Nick had a reputation for being nice to just about everyone … well, that didn’t exactly mean he’d want her number when all this was over, not even as a professional contact. Meanwhile, the more time she spent with Nick, the more time she wanted to spend with him, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he was very nice to look at. Put him in a dark room and she’d still be happy. Of course, if she was in a dark room with Nick, she’d probably be very happy …

Oh, hell.

She knocked back the rest of her gimlet and let Nick mix her a second. It didn’t help that there was a king-size bed beside their table. The hotel had apparently been out of double beds. When she said “apparently,” she wasn’t implying that Nick had lied. As nice as that might have been for her ego, Nick would never pull that. She’d been the one asking when the desk clerk had said there were only king rooms left, all the while giving Vanessa a look that said, “This better be your brother, sugar, or you’re out of your mind for wanting two beds.” The room had a pullout sofa, though, and Nick had gallantly offered to take it, though she planned to flip him for it when the time came.

At least they weren’t drinking in awkward silence. Nick was being his charming self, making conversation. He seemed in no rush to get to sleep, and she needed the drink as much as she’d joked she did. She’d started a very rare third as he asked about her move from fieldwork to team leader.

“I’m a half-assed field agent,” she said. When he started to make the obligatory protest, she raised her hand against it. “That’s not humility. I’m better suited to supervising. As you may have been able to tell, I’m not a twenty-five-year-old kick-ass martial-arts fighter. Never was, even at twenty-five. Getting through basic training was a bitch. Marksmanship? No problem. Academic? Technical? Easy-peasy. Running, jumping, climbing? Hell, no. I just don’t have the body for it.”

His gaze dropped, and she’d like to think he was checking out aforementioned body, just as she’d really like to think that the spark in his eyes was an appreciative assessment. When he said, “Nothing wrong with that,” there was a flicker of hope that he was complimenting her, but he followed the comment with, “Not everyone’s cut out for everything,” and she took another gulp of her drink.

Stop acting like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Oh, but Nick Sorrentino was so crush-able. In every way.

Another long drink, this one draining her glass. He went to take it then stopped, looking her in the eyes, head tilted, as if assessing her sobriety.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I have a high tolerance.”

His lips quirked in a smile. “And you’re a lousy liar. I’m good at reading the signs, and it’s time to cut you off.”

“Spent some time tending bar, have you?” Even as she said it, she wanted to slap herself. Nick Sorrentino had most certainly never been a bartender, not unless he’d played one on a friend’s yacht.

Before she could retract the comment, he laughed and shook his head. “No, nothing like that. I’m just …” He shrugged. “Careful. If a woman’s had too much …” Another shrug. “I’m careful.”

In other words, he’d learned to read the signs so he wouldn’t take advantage of a woman who’d overindulged.

Damn, she thought, looking at him. Why hasn’t someone snatched you up by now?

Again, it was a stupid question. If a man like this was snatchable, some woman would have done it twenty years ago. He wasn’t interested in that. Why would he be? For a guy like Nick Sorrentino, there was no upside to a committed relationship. It wasn’t like he’d get more sex if he had a steady girlfriend.

And maybe, for five minutes, you could stop thinking about Nick and sex?

“I’m not going to stop you,” he said. “But if you really aren’t accustomed to that much, you’ll pay for it tomorrow.”

He held out a bottle of water. She took it and put her empty glass aside. He deserved backup that wasn’t hungover tomorrow.

“We should be getting to bed.” Her cheeks heated. “I mean, getting to sleep.”

“I know what you meant.” He cleared his throat, the easy humor falling from his eyes. “I also know you might not be comfortable sharing a room, given what you think of me.”

“What?” She looked up, startled. “No, I—I have absolutely no qualms about sleeping with you.” Oh God, did she just say that? “I mean, sleeping in the same room as you.”

His head tilted again, another searching look, cooling fast now. When he spoke, his tone was clipped, uncharacteristically formal. “If I make you nervous, I can assure you I did not suggest a single room because I plan to seduce you.”

“I know that. And you didn’t suggest it—we agreed on it. For safety.” She forced a laugh. “It’s not like you need to trick a woman into a hotel room to get laid.” Stop talking. Stop talking now. “That didn’t come out right. I just mean—”

“You made it clear this afternoon what you meant, Vanessa, and if we can avoid resuming that conversation, I’d appreciate it.”

“I was flirting.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them. No, not slipped. Blurted. She’d seen that she was losing any ground she’d gained and the only solution—after three gimlets—seemed to be this. Honesty.

She expected him to blink in surprise. Laugh maybe. Relax certainly. Instead, he pulled back, his gaze shuttering. He thought she was mocking him.

“I was flirting,” she said. “I … Jayne and Tina … well, they talked, and I … You sounded like a nice guy.”

“Nice?”

Her cheeks heated. “Among other things. I know how terrible this sounds, but I didn’t know you, and it’s been a while …”

“Been a while?” he repeated.

Now her cheeks seared. Shut up. Just shut up. But she couldn’t. Not while he was giving her that chilly look. She had to get traction. Somehow.

“Sex,” she blurted. “It’s been a while. I’ve never had a one-night stand, and you seemed … I wanted …”

“Some of what I appeared to be freely offering?”

“Oh God, even plastered, I know how bad this sounds. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Was she imagining things or did he seem to be relaxing? A hint of a smile in his eyes? Nope, she was imagining it. She had to be.

She plowed forward. “I didn’t know you. Yes, that’s a lousy excuse. If you were a woman and I was a guy thinking that, it’d be wrong and insulting, so it still is, and I apologize. I’m just trying to explain why … I didn’t mean to offend you this afternoon.”

“You were flirting.” Definitely a hint of a smile in his eyes now.

“I … I thought if I talked about you and them, you’d know I was okay with it, that I wasn’t a prude or anything. I was trying to open the door.”

“I see.” He watched her for at least ten seconds, then burst out laughing. When he recovered, he said, “Not a lot of experience with flirting, I take it?”

“None.”

“You may want to work on your technique.”

She sputtered a laugh. “You think?” They both laughed.

Then Vanessa sobered. “I am sorry. I think you’re a great guy, and that was a lousy thing to do. I was wrong to presume … well, to presume anything. The point is that I’m not the least bit concerned that you brought me here to seduce me. You wouldn’t do that, and not just because you don’t need to. You’ll be a gentleman because that’s what you are.”

He shrugged, pulling back as if uncomfortable with the compliment. “It’s basic respect.”

“I know. I’m just saying that I appreciate it.” She forced a smile. “And that I know I have nothing to worry about, even without that ‘basic respect.’”

A smile played on his lips. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Since we’re being honest, I’ll admit that I possibly was playing to type this afternoon, checking you out when we met. Which doesn’t mean we’d have ended up in bed. I’d like to think there’s a little more to my decision-making than, ‘Damn, she’s hot,’ but there was that, and I’ll admit it, even if it makes me seem like exactly what you expected.”

“You aren’t what I expected.” She met his gaze. “At all.”

He pulled back again, as if not displeased with the implied flattery but not comfortable with it, either. Then he smiled and shook his head. “I think three gimlets is past your limit.”

“It is.” She paused. “Wait, did you say I was hot?”

He laughed. “Definitely past your limit. Let’s get you to bed. Alone.”

“Damn.”

He leaned forward and she thought he was going to say something. But he kissed her. The shock of that almost made her pull back. Luckily, she recovered fast enough to return it. When she tried to put her hands around his neck, though, he caught and held them, and kept kissing her, a gentle kiss that promised more but did not deliver on that promise. Sweet and careful, like a first kiss after a high school date, a kiss that said simply, I like you. It also said, quite clearly, This is all you’re getting, but added a subtle … for now.

“Time for bed,” he said when he pulled back. “For sleep.”

“I know. You take it. I’ve got the sofa.”

He shook his head. “Absolutely not. I’m taking—”

She cut him off with a wave, walked over, and pulled out the sofa bed. He hurried to help.

“This is mine,” he said.

“Mine.” She flounced down onto it and lay back. “And I’m not moving. So unless you want to share …”

His gaze traveled over her, and she swore that gaze was like gasoline, her demon fire igniting and searing a path down her body. She reached up and undid the first button on her shirt. Then the second. He watched, his breath coming faster. When she undid her front bra clasp, he yanked his gaze up to her eyes.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“Doesn’t matter.”

A wistful smile shattered the lust in his dark eyes. “Yes, it does.” He walked over to the sofa, leaned down, and kissed her again, that sweet promise of a kiss. “I appreciate the offer,” he said when he pulled back. “I would love to accept, but …”

She lifted up and kissed him, that same kiss, in it nothing except promise.

“Thank you,” she said, then fastened her shirt and watched him retreat to his side of the room.

20. NICK

When Nick woke to sunlight streaming into the room, he bolted up, certain he’d forgotten to set his alarm for driving Noah to school. Then he saw the half-closed curtains … which were not his curtains. The night rushed back and he sat there, propped up, taking a moment to process it. Then his gaze swung to the sofa bed where Vanessa was …

The sofa bed was empty.

Now he did jump up, his legs swinging out, feet hitting the floor. Had she left? Woken sober, remembered the gimlets and the conversation and the kisses, and slipped out in embarrassment? He paused. No, Vanessa wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t run off when Malcolm was on the prowl.

A noise sounded across the room. He noticed light under the bathroom door, exhaled, and lay back down.

He shouldn’t have kissed her. She’d been drunk and from the way she’d been blushing furiously when she admitted she’d hoped to seduce him, he had a feeling she was regretting that kiss.

But he couldn’t help himself. She’d been so flustered, so anxious to apologize, even if it meant embarrassing herself with her confession.

Last night, he’d seen many sides of Vanessa. The cool leader and the tough agent, certainly, but also the pain and grief and blame over Tina, and the blame and self-recrimination over Stokes. In spite of that, she’d been determined to see this through.

He hadn’t fought very hard when Elena and Rhys decided she could stay. He still wished she’d gotten on that plane—for her own safety—but he wasn’t exactly gritting his teeth and counting down the hours until they could go their separate ways.

Yet they would go their separate ways. Eventually. And there’d been a moment, lying in bed last night after kissing her, when he’d tried to figure out how to see her again. He supposed the answer was easy—just say, “Hey, I’d like to see you again.” But he had no idea where she lived, and if she wasn’t a short drive from New York, then “getting together” involved serious effort, which would imply that, well, he was serious. That wasn’t a message he’d ever send. Not on so short an acquaintance.

The bathroom door opened. Vanessa walked out, dressed in her button-down shirt and, from what he could tell, nothing else. If he’d pictured how she might look the morning after sex—and yes, let’s be honest, he had—this was it, her long hair mussed, falling over the half-buttoned shirt, her full breasts pushing against the fabric as she walked, her long legs bare, shirt riding up enough to give him teasing glimpses of full hips and …

And he was staring. Also … He tugged at the sheet to hide his rising interest.

“Sorry,” he said, pulling his gaze away.

She smiled. “If I objected to being watched, I’d have put my pants back on.”

So he watched, since that implied permission and perhaps even invitation. She walked to the side of his bed and stood there, smiling as his gaze traveled down her.

“I’m sober,” she said.

“So I see.”

She put one knee on the bed, her shirt riding up enough to show her panties, very simple white cotton trimmed with lace, but small enough that he couldn’t help thinking how they must look from the rear, if she bent over, that lush ass—

The sheet didn’t really help now. He could shift, try to hide it better, but Vanessa had her hands on the bed now, moving slowly onto it, watching him for any sign that she should retreat, and he decided hiding his interest really wasn’t in his best, well, interests.

“Is this okay?” she asked, one foot still on the floor.

He glanced down, directing her gaze. When she saw the obvious tent in the sheets, she grinned, her eyes sparkling with delight and, yes, surprise, as if she somehow figured she could walk over half naked and he’d be yawning, really wishing she’d just let him sleep. If that’s what she expected, she’d clearly been hanging out with men in rather desperate need of a little blue pill.

He moved over, letting her onto the bed. While she was still climbing in, he undid the remaining buttons on her blouse. It fell open. He reached in and cupped her breasts. She let out a soft hiss as his thumbs rubbed across her already-erect nipples. She shrugged off the shirt and damn, she was gorgeous, hair tumbling down over breasts he could barely get his hands around, full and soft.

If it was possible to get any harder, he did, his cock pushing urgently against his briefs now, as he gripped her breasts and pulled her down into a kiss. She kissed him back—hell, how she kissed him back, nothing like last night, hard and rough and hungry, leaving no doubt where this was leading, but … As much as he hated to ask the question, he knew he had to.

“I know you’re sober,” he said. “But are you sure? If you’ve never had a one-night—”

“I shouldn’t start now,” she said. “I know. You’re right.”

Shit. He shouldn’t have asked if she was sure.

But he had to, didn’t he? He exhaled and started easing back. So did she. Instead of crawling off him, though, she only lifted up on all fours, then leaned down to kiss him again, her hard nipples brushing his chest.

“I can’t have sex with you and walk away,” she said as she tugged the sheet down. “Maybe I could have, before we met, but then I got to know you and … one night—or morning—wouldn’t be enough.”

“I—”

“And I know you don’t do more than that,” she said, lowering her mouth to his chest, tongue flicking his nipples, teeth nibbling them before she raised her head. “Or a sequence of nights, equally casual.”

“I—”

“I’m not asking you to say this is different. It’d be a lie, and you don’t play that game.” She hooked the sides of his briefs, pulling them over his hips, his cock jumping free. “You’re a decent guy. Your terms are clear. Casual sex or no sex. Which means, as much as I’m going to regret it, no sex.”

“I—”

“That’s not an ultimatum,” she said, looking up at him. “I wouldn’t crawl naked into your bed and tease you into agreeing to something you don’t want. I’m crawling naked into your bed to say thanks but no thanks, in the most appreciative way I can think of.”

She shifted down, curls and breasts tickling his chest, then his thighs as she moved down over his cock, her lips parting as she lowered them to it.

“You don’t have to—”

She grinned, cutting him short. “Oh, believe me. I want to,” she said, and went down on him.

21. NICK

Vanessa might not have had any experience with one-night stands, but that certainly didn’t mean she was inexperienced. If anything, he mused later, the fact that she was accustomed to long-term relationships seemed to actually have its benefits. You could get away with lazy or inattentive sex on a one-nighter. With a long-term partner, more skill was required … and the time to develop that skill was provided. In short, it was the best blow job he’d had in years, and when she finished, he showed his appreciation by reciprocating, which she certainly seemed to appreciate in return.

Now they were in bed, finishing a room-service breakfast and struggling to keep their attention on planning their next move with Malcolm. Or Nick was struggling. The food had helped as a temporary distraction. He’d been starving, and since Vanessa knew what he was, he didn’t have to hold back. He’d gotten two breakfasts, eaten them both, and she’d only teased about a werewolf’s legendary appetite.

The meal over, they’d started planning, and that’s when the food settled and he noticed Vanessa was wearing the panties and shirt again, the blouse left unbuttoned, modestly hanging almost closed but with enough of a gap to tease whenever she moved. She looked even sexier now, sated and smoky-eyed, lounging in the bed, completely at ease.

“The problem in finding Malcolm”—she said—“is that we can’t in a city this size. We know he’s around, and you suspect he’ll make a move for me—”

“He will.”

“Which leads to problem number two. With that phone scrambled, he’s not going to find us, either.”

She shifted, blouse falling open, revealing a generous curve of breast and—

He pulled his gaze away. Focus. What had she been saying? Right, the phone.

“Should we unscramble it?” he said. Before she could answer, he shook his head. “No, obviously not, or it’ll bring those werewolf hunters running.”

“Also, Malcolm would smell a trap.”

“True.”

She reached for her own phone, blouse stretching open now, one breast showing, nipple erect and—

“We kept the phone so he could call,” Nick said quickly. “Can we call him? I know the number was blocked, but …”

“That’s just what I was checking,” she said, tapping her phone. “I set someone on it last night, reverse-tracing the number. Still nothing, but that’s still our best bet. The trick, again, is how to work it so he doesn’t smell a trap.”

Nick shook his head. “No, the trick is to let him smell a trap, but one as clumsy as he expects from me. One he figures he can easily thwart.”

“Okay, let me grab my notebook. I brainstorm better on paper.”

She climbed from bed and crossed to her bag. When she bent over it, her blouse fell open and rode up to her waist, her ass on full display, those tiny white panties covering just enough to—

Nick took a deep breath and tried to steer his thoughts elsewhere. It didn’t work, probably because he was still looking. She rummaged through the bag, full breasts hanging free, ass moving as she shifted, inviting him to rip off those panties and—

She straightened and turned. “Okay, I—”

Her gaze dropped to his crotch, cock straining against his boxers. A slow grin. “Should I bend over again for you?”

He let out a low growl.

Her grin grew. “That legendary werewolf appetite isn’t just for food, is it?”

He said nothing as she walked back to the bed, an extra swing in her hips, blouse left half open, eyes glittering with the confidence of a woman who knows a man’s watching her and that he’s enjoying the view immensely.

She stopped at the side of the bed. “We do need to get to work, however inconvenient the timing. That leaves two options. Either I get dressed, or I …” Her gaze dropped to his crotch. “… take care of the problem I caused.”

“I’d hate to ask you to get dressed.”

She laughed, eased onto the bed, and tugged down his boxers with one hand. The other hand reached in, her warm fingers wrapping around—

The phone rang. His phone.

“It’s mine,” he said as she paused. “Just ignore …” He struggled to finish the sentence. Ignore it. Keep going. But it could be Malcolm. Or Elena. And he shouldn’t be …

Ah, shit.

“Answer,” she said, pulling up his boxers. “I’ll give you a rain check. Redeemable at any time, anyplace.”

She grinned wickedly, and the thought of all the places he could redeem that rain check gave him pause. It also made him think whoever was calling could wait a few minutes. But Vanessa was already handing him his phone from the nightstand. When he saw the number, he swore. Reese. It could have waited.

No, he realized with an inward sigh, it couldn’t have. Even if he’d known that it was almost certainly nothing more urgent than, Hey, where’d you put the TV remote? it didn’t matter, because it could be more urgent, and there was no way he was focusing on sex while worrying about that.

He answered.

“Okay,” Reese said. “I give up. I need an address.”

Nick flipped to his messages, seeing if he’d missed a text. He hadn’t.

“What?” he said.

“I’m breaking down and admitting that I’m a lousy detective. I can’t find you. I need an address.”

Nick went still. Before he could ask what the hell Reese meant—and please don’t let it be what it seems to be—Reese continued, “I’ve been here for two hours. I’ve called every bloody five-star hotel and even a few of the fours. I’ve used your name and both your aliases. My master plan to show up on your doorstep has failed.”

“You’re in Detroit …?”

“Um, yeah. Kinda the gist of what I was saying.”

“What the hell are you—?”

Nick clipped his question short. As he paused, Reese continued, talking fast, rambling, as if he could distract Nick from the why with details of the how, explaining that he’d told Antonio that Nick called to say Reese could join him on his mission. Then he packed a bag, drove to Detroit overnight, and spent the last few hours trying to figure out where Nick was staying.

“You told Elena, right?” Nick said. He knew the answer, but he asked anyway.

A long pause.

“Let me rephrase that,” Nick said. “You asked Elena. That’s a statement not a question, because she’s the Alpha, and you would never do something like this without checking with her, and if you have, then Clay is going to kick your ass all the way back home for being so damned disrespectful that you didn’t even think to ask.”

Silence, then a quiet, “Shit.” A pause. “Should I …? I’ll call her now.”

“Where are you?”

“Some diner—”

“Where exactly are you? Name and location.”

The pause seemed to get even longer this time, though the question was a simple one. “What happened?” Reese said finally.

“Give me the damned address.”

Reese did.

“Now stay there. Understand? Do not leave that table, not even to take a piss. I’ll be there in half an hour, and I’d damned well better find you still in that seat.”

“Um, what’s up?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Sure. I just …”

Reese trailed off, and Nick could hear the concern and uncertainty in his voice, as he had when Nick first demanded the address. Yes, at home, Nick set the schedules and the boundaries, and he doled out the punishments, but he never snapped orders or raised his voice.

“Just stay there,” Nick said, taking it down a notch. “Whatever happens, remain in that seat.”

“I will.”

22. NICK

Nick drove as Vanessa gave directions from her phone. He could feel her casting worried glances his way as she’d been doing since he’d hung up and started getting dressed. She’d figured out what happened from his side of the conversation. She’d said little since. Worried he’d bite her head off, too? Thinking now that maybe he wasn’t such a nice guy after all?

“I know you’re worried,” she said finally. “I’m trying to figure out how to say this without pissing you off even more …”

“Left or right?” he said, waving at the road, which ended ahead.

She checked. “Left.”

Silence until he made his turn.

“It’s a city of a million people, Nick. I know you realize the chances of Malcolm finding him …”

She went quiet. Nick kept his gaze straight ahead, but his gut churned. If Malcolm found Reese … He clenched the steering wheel. Going after Vanessa would be a dagger to Nick’s back. But Reese? That would be standing right in front of him and driving the blade through his heart. Given the choice, there was no question who Malcolm would pick.

“He won’t find Reese,” Vanessa said, her voice low. “Not this quickly. He’d need to know he was here, and start looking, and even then, Reese would have to do something stupid, like check into a hotel under his own name. He just got here. He drove around in his car and then he went for breakfast. Malcolm cannot find him.”

Silence.

“Nick …”

He eased his foot a fraction off the pedal.

“He’s Australian, right?” Vanessa said.

Nick glanced over sharply.

“I’m trying to distract you,” she said. “If you want me to shut up, tell me to shut up. But this will go better if your blood pressure is lower by the time you get there. So, if you can, tell me about Reese.”

He did, awkwardly at first, spitting out a few facts, then relaxing and talking—maybe even bragging. He didn’t reveal anything too personal, but he did talk.

“And there are two more, right?” she said. “Morgan and Noah?”

“You did your homework.”

A wry smile. “I was hoping to seduce you, remember? In retrospect, I think I’d have gotten further talking about your kids, not your conquests.”

“They aren’t—”

“I know. They’re not your kids. They aren’t even kids, technically. But they’re your family of choice.”

He managed a faint smile. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a choice. They landed in my lap and were stuck with me.”

“But you chose to take them in. To give them a home. Three total strangers.”

Nick shifted. “Noah wasn’t—”

“I know. He’s the son of an old friend. But you know what I mean. You just don’t like taking credit.”

“Because I didn’t do anything to deserve it. We have money. We have a big house. I have time for them. I wanted to do this. It was my choice, and I don’t think I’ve ever made a better one. I’m not cut out for children. I realized that when Elena and Clay had the twins. This is right for me.”

A moment of silence, then she said, “Make a left up here.”

He turned, then said, “You’ve got my background info. I don’t have yours. Ever been married? Any kids?”

“No and no. Too busy for both. I have a niece who lives with me, though. Her mom died of cancer five years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was hard, for both of us. My sister was my best friend. Sophie and I had been close since she was born, so that helped. Dawn’s death just brought us closer.”

“You adopted Sophie?”

She laughed. “No, nothing like that. Dawn was five years older than me, so Sophie was past the age of needing to be adopted. She stayed with her dad until she came out to Boston U and moved in with me.”

“You live in Boston?”

“I do.”

He found himself mentally calculating the distance. A four-hour drive from the city, but only three from their place.

Vanessa continued. “I know, I don’t have the Boston accent. I grew up in Newark. Yes, I’m a Jersey girl. I kept the hair, but I managed to lose the accent, thankfully long before that show started.”

“Show?”

“If you don’t know it, I’m not mentioning it. Now, you’ll want to turn right at the next light. Then we’re only a mile away.”

He eased back into his seat. “Tell me about Sophie.”

She grinned. “Happily.”

She did, with as much pride as he’d talked about the boys. By the time she said, “That’s it, up there on the left,” he was relaxed and ready to handle the situation calmly and rationally.

“Thanks,” he said as he pulled into a parking spot.

“Anytime. Now let’s scoop Reese up and get him on a plane home. By then, my resources should have a phone number for Malcolm.”

23. NICK

They were a couple of blocks from a hotel where he’d stayed with the boys when they visited the Detroit auto show so Noah could choose his first car. Nick figured this had been Reese’s last attempt to find him—stop at the hotel and see if he could pick up Nick’s scent. When he hadn’t, he’d gone for breakfast.

The hotel was actually in a suburb, like most of the city’s best. This suburb had been around for decades and had weathered the economic woes gracefully. The road looked like any other well-to-do street, with people bustling about. Or driving about, as the case was. It wasn’t a walking neighborhood. Reese must have walked, though, at least from the hotel, because Nick saw no sign of his car. That got his heart speeding up, even if he knew Reese would rather trek a mile than drive it.

“He’s fine,” Vanessa murmured as they waited to cross the road. “There’s absolutely no way that Malcolm …”

She trailed off. Nick followed her gaze to see three men getting out of a pickup with Ohio plates. It was the same truck he’d out-maneuvered last night.

“That’s not poss—” She cut herself off and reached to grab Nick’s arm, but he already had hers, tugging her back between a truck and a van. Nick double-checked the plate number. There was no question. It was the hunters from last night.

“Stay here,” he said. “Cover my back while I go inside.”

“No. They followed you. They must have. You can’t lead them to …”

Again she trailed off. This time, Nick didn’t need to track her gaze because they were looking at the same thing—the hunters, as they headed straight for the restaurant where Reese waited.

“How the hell?” Vanessa said.

“I’m guessing they hacked my phone. Listened in and heard Reese tell me where he is.”

She shook her head. “I’m betting on a supernatural explanation. A clairvoyant on the team or a shaman.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Nick said. “I’m not standing here until I figure out how they found him. They did.”

She caught the back of his shirt before he could leave.

“Reese is still fine,” she said. “They won’t touch him in there.”

“I’m—”

“—going in after him. I know. And I won’t stop you. It’s not like I could even if I wanted to. I’m just asking you to take thirty seconds to plan your next move.”

“I won’t know that until I get in there,” he said. “See the layout. See what they’re doing.”

She nodded. “Fair enough. Swap phones with me, then.”

He glanced down at her as she held out her phone.

“Take mine so I can contact you,” she said. “I’ll take yours so I can call Reese and let him know what’s going on before you get in there.”

Nick handed her his phone. The hunters headed into the restaurant without a backward glance. He followed.

Nick had told Vanessa he couldn’t formulate a plan until he got the lay of the land. Not entirely true. It was only the specifics he needed more data for. The general plan was simple: get Reese the hell out of there.

Reese didn’t look up when Nick walked in, meaning Vanessa had indeed warned him. He sat across the restaurant, drinking a Coke and doing something on his phone—or pretending to. The hunters had taken the booth right behind him. Their heads were together as they talked. They didn’t look up, either.

Gaze still fixed on his phone, Reese gestured with his free hand. It took a moment for Nick to realize what he was trying to communicate. Sit down. Wait.

Nick hesitated and then slid into a booth, positioning himself so he could see Reese but the hunters couldn’t see him.

Vanessa’s phone pinged. Nick glanced down to see a text from Reese.

They’re figuring out how to take me down. Consensus seems to be following me back to my car.

Not surprisingly, the hunters didn’t know a lot about werewolves—at least not enough to lower their voices.

Nick texted back. Head to the restroom. I’ll confront them. You slip out.

Reese looked over and mouthed, “Seriously?”

Nick glowered at him. Apparently he wasn’t very good at the expression, because Reese seemed to be stifling a laugh. Reese shook his head and texted.

I’ll leave, but only to lure them out. You follow. I’ll give them a convenient dark alley to jump me in. We jump them. Find out who they work for.

Nick paused. He could feel Reese watching him.

Another text pinged. I’m not a kid, Nick. You, me, your spy friend against three of them? Easy odds.

Nick replied, It’s not them I’m worried about.

Reese paused, then he sent back, You saw Malcolm out there?

No, but he’s keeping an eye on the situation. If he’s here—

Nick stopped. He didn’t send the message. Instead, he flipped to send one to his phone, for Vanessa. A simple, Everything okay?

His heart pounded as he waited for a reply. When none came after ten seconds, he called. The phone rang. And rang. And went to voice mail.

Nick scrambled out of the booth. It took him all of five seconds to realize what an idiotic move that was. He scrambled up, the hunters spotted him, and everybody went still.

The three hunters stood frozen, their mental wheels turning as they figured out their next move. Reese was looking at something across the restaurant. Nick started for the men. Reese swung out of his booth, yelling, “Gun!” and grabbing the nearest hunter by the arm—the arm that was under his jacket, holding his weapon.

The gun flew out. People screamed. Reese grappled with his target, the gun hitting the floor. One of the other hunters just stood there, slack-jawed. The other whipped out his gun. Nick dove for him as he heard a shout from across the restaurant: “Drop your weapons! Police!”

Two men were on their feet, plainclothes officers with service revolvers trained on the combatants. Reese must have overheard something that told him they were cops.

Reese gave a werewolf-strength heave and threw his target toward the detectives. Nick was still grappling with his. He snapped the hunter’s arm. The man yowled. His gun fell. Nick grabbed him by the jacket and threw him to the cops.

Nick and Reese turned on the third hunter. Behind them, the detectives tried to tell everyone to stand down, drop their weapons, get on the ground, but there were only two of them, busy subduing two big men. The third hunter hadn’t pulled a gun, and the detectives seemed to decide Reese and Nick could handle him.

Nick took a slow step toward the hunter. He turned and ran for the back door.

“Bring Vanessa around,” Reese said to Nick. “I’ve got this.”

Nick shook his head. “Stay with me. I think Malcolm’s here. Vanessa’s not answering—”

“Then go get her.”

“It could be—”

“—a trap. I know. I’ll be careful. But if Malcolm sees me with you …”

Reese was right. As much as Nick wanted Reese at his side, he was safer if he wasn’t.

“I’ll get what I can from that fuckwit,” Reese said. “You find Malcolm.”

Nick nodded and took off.

Malcolm had been there. Nick could smell him outside. Put that together with Vanessa clearly not being where she should be—or answering her phone—and Nick wasn’t pissing around untangling scents to confirm his suspicions. Vanessa would never chase Malcolm if she spotted him. Not after last night. Malcolm must have taken her. And if Nick was going to get her back, he couldn’t be crouching on the sidewalk. He needed a shortcut.

He strode into the first empty service lane, found a spot behind a parked delivery van, and took off his clothing to begin his Change. Was it the safest spot to do it? Nope. Did he give a shit? Nope.

Nick was never speedy at his Changes, even at the best of times. Halfway through, he realized he hadn’t thought this through. Would the change in form give him enough advantages to outweigh the delay? He hoped so, because it was too late to go back now.

He finished his Change and struggled up. His legs wobbled, exhausted from the strain, accustomed to a few minutes of rest afterward. He didn’t have a few minutes. He gave himself a muzzle-to-tail shake. There was always some adjustment—to being on four legs, to a black-and-white world, to the sounds and scents that assaulted him from all sides. He snorted, exhaling hard and pawing the ground, getting his bearings as fast as he could.

As he turned to go, Vanessa’s phone rang from his pocket, now stuffed into a recycling bin, under a layer of shredded paper. He did pause, worrying that it was Vanessa or Reese, needing him. But he couldn’t risk Changing back.

The phone stopped ringing. Nick took off.

24. VANESSA

Vanessa listened to her recorded voice, telling the caller to leave a message.

“Nick, it’s me. Call back. Please.”

She sent the same message by text. There was no reply. It was her own goddamned fault. He’d tried to call her and she’d been running, the phone stuffed in her pocket, unheard.

Now she’d stopped to let Nick know what was going on and discovered she’d had three calls from him. She’d been texting to tell Nick to come after her. Now he was … without knowing what the hell was going on.

Damn it. She really had been out of the field too long.

She looked around the shop. Electronics. She was in the accessories section, catching her breath while pretending to check out the vast selection of earbuds. Malcolm was … Well, that was the problem. She wasn’t exactly sure where Malcolm was.

She’d spotted him as she’d been waiting on the sidewalk, keeping an eye on the restaurant. One eye on the restaurant … while looking for Malcolm. He was using the hunters, not only for amusement and diversion, but to keep tabs on Nick. He’d set them on Nick with that cell phone trick. Now they apparently had their own methods of tracking Nick, meaning Malcolm could just follow along.

Sure enough, after five minutes, Malcolm had shown up. He’d spotted Vanessa almost immediately. Then he’d begun circling, like a lone wolf with a deer, surveying the situation, determining the best method of attack.

She hadn’t waited for him to figure it out. Take control of the situation. That was what she’d been taught, and that was what she did. She didn’t run. He wouldn’t have bought that, not only because he must know she wasn’t some random woman Nick had picked up, but because, let’s face it, with the rental car nearby—and Nick within screaming distance—she’d be an idiot to run.

Earlier, they’d decided that the best trap was an obvious one. Let Malcolm see it. Let his ego take over. So she had hurried off—after making it very clear through her body language that she was actually luring him away. In other words, she did exactly what she figured Tina had done, and Malcolm went for it.

Vanessa didn’t have Tina’s overconfidence, though. Nor that desperate desire to impress Nick. Well, yes, she did want to impress him, but not by taking down Malcolm alone—even if she somehow managed it, he’d think her a reckless fool. She’d stuck to the shop-lined road, where Malcolm wouldn’t dare strike. Then she would text Nick and tell him what was happening, so he could be in place when she left the shop for a quiet place where Malcolm would pounce.

Except Nick wasn’t answering the phone. She tried Reese, too, but it went to voice mail. Was Reese okay? Was Nick with him?

Damn it. She should have looped Nick in right away. She hadn’t wanted to worry him while he was dealing with the hunters. She figured she could keep Malcolm on the run until Nick was free. Which was, she supposed, exactly what she needed to do now. Keep texting and keep luring—

“Hello.”

She turned to see Malcolm Danvers. Standing right beside her.

He was in his eighties, but looked a quarter century younger. She would not say he was an attractive man—after how he’d killed Tina and Sharon Stokes, there was no way her brain could see anything attractive there—but she could acknowledge that he’d have no trouble with women. Average height, with a powerful build, blue eyes, and dark hair sprinkled with gray. All that passed through her brain as simple data. What she actually noticed were his eyes. Empty and cold even as they sparkled with amusement at her surprise.

“Oh,” he said. “Were you texting Nicky? Telling him where you’ll lure me so he can take me down? Please, don’t let me interrupt. In fact, I can suggest a place about a block over. Have him meet me there in five minutes. You can stay here, or at least pretend to stay here while following me to protect your lover.” A pause. “He is your lover, I presume?”

She opened her mouth, but he cut her off. “Oh, you’re more than just his lover, I’m sure. You’re one of Rhys Smith’s agents. But you’re still sleeping with Nicky. That’s a given. You’re female and reasonably attractive. A little past your prime, but Nicky isn’t as choosy as I am. If he doesn’t lose his hard-on looking at it, he’ll fuck it.”

She tried to give no reaction, but she must have, because he laughed. “Sorry to shatter your illusions, my dear. Sleeping with him doesn’t mean you’re pretty enough for him. You’re merely fuckable. For a night. If nothing better presents itself.”

He’s trying to throw you off balance. And using what he must think every woman is susceptible to—insulting her appearance. Don’t stoop to being exactly what he expects.

“Go ahead,” he continued. “Text him. Tell him to meet me in the park. It’s empty enough.”

When she didn’t move, he snatched the phone so fast she didn’t see it coming. She grabbed for it. He backpedaled, smiling when another customer looked over, startled.

“My phone,” he said to the middle-aged man. “You know how wives are. Always ‘borrowing’ it so they can see what mischief you’ve been up to.”

The man gave a small laugh and continued on his way.

“Ah, this is Nicky’s phone.” Malcolm whistled as he looked at the screen. “I’m surprised it has enough memory to hold his little black book. So many women …” He flipped through. “No notes, though. That’s disappointing. Maybe I should forward this list to myself. Rate them for him.”

Vanessa grabbed for the phone as he backed up, chuckling.

“One would think you’d appreciate me weeding out the competition.” He made a show of flicking down the contact list. “Though even with my appetite, I’m not sure I could make a dent.” He looked up. “Such a shame he let you take this, isn’t it?”

“A shame?”

“Because it proves he doesn’t give a damn about you. If he did, he’d want to spare your feelings.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I already knew how big that list would be and I don’t give a shit.”

Malcolm smiled, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me you didn’t look. Contacts, e-mail, texts … I’m sure there’s some interesting tidbits in there.”

“You’re right. I should have looked. If you see any tips for what he likes, let me know. Now, is there something else we can discuss, while we both stall, waiting for him to track me here? Opinions on Detroit’s prospects for a return to economic stability?”

“No, but I do have an informed opinion on Nick Sorrentino’s prospects for a continued existence on this earth. Not good, I fear. In fact, I expect him to leave it in”—he checked his watch—“the next thirty minutes. Probably less, but as you may have realized, he’s not the brightest bulb. I have to allow some extra time for him to find us. Killing him, though? That will be quick.”

When she didn’t reply, he looked over. “Did he tell you I wouldn’t kill him because I’m too fond of his father? Let me ask you a question, my dear. Does Antonio know where Nick is?”

Before she could answer, he continued, “I don’t require a reply. I’m sure he does not. Antonio was always a poor parent. Too soft by far. He felt guilty taking Nicky from his mother, so he coddled the boy and made sure nothing in the big bad world could get him. If he found out Nicky was coming after me, he’d have chained him in the basement to keep him home. Because Antonio has a secret. Do you know why I left the Pack?”

“Your son beat you in the Alpha race.”

The amused glitter in Malcolm’s eyes evaporated in a maelstrom of hate, so strong and so ugly that Vanessa took an involuntary step back.

“He did not beat me. The coward would never dare challenge me. Not in combat.”

“I meant that Jeremy was elected over you. The Pack agreed to vote, and he won.”

“And do you know why he won? Because Antonio handed him the Alpha crown on a platter. Antonio could coddle Nicky so well because he had plenty of experience at it. From the time my brat was old enough to toddle, Antonio was there, making sure there was nothing sharp or hard for him to fall on. That’s the problem with the Sorrentinos. A strong Pack culls the weak. The Sorrentinos embrace them. Protect them. Look at your Nicky, taking in those young mutts. Joey’s boy is a half-wit. The other two aren’t much better. Misfits and weaklings.”

Vanessa was barely listening now. Just let him rant. Give Nick time to get here.

“Speaking of misfits and weaklings … So my brat fancied himself Alpha, and what did Antonio do? Double-crossed me to hand him the crown. He promised me his vote. Promised me Dennis and Joey’s vote. All I had to do was not take my competition out of the race.”

Vanessa had to bite her tongue—hard—to keep from saying, And you bought it? Antonio’s ploy was so obvious that an agent in training wouldn’t have fallen for it. But apparently Malcolm had. Or his ego had.

“Antonio double-crossed me. Dennis ran off to Alaska with Joey, and Antonio didn’t stop them. That’s when I realized he had no intention of giving me his vote. I fought back, but it was too late. The die was cast. My brat got his crown. And me? Well, let’s just say I owe Antonio a debt, one I fully intend to repay any minute now. He’s about to regret coddling his son when he should have been turning him into a fighter.”

“I think you’re underestimating Nick.”

Malcolm chuckled. “No, I’m quite certain I’m not. He isn’t even here yet. The boy can barely follow a well-laid scent. He’s no match for me.”

“What if he won’t fight you?”

“Oh, he will. Did I mention the Sorrentinos have a weakness for weaklings? That includes women. Especially damsels-in-distress.”

She laughed. “I’m hardly—”

“Oh, but you will be, as soon as he walks through that door. I’m going to break your spine. Above the first vertebra. He’ll walk in, and you’ll be on the floor, paralyzed. For life, I’m afraid. It will cause a commotion, naturally, but it will happen too quickly for anyone to react. Nick will see what I’ve done. I’ll run. He’ll follow to repay me for my cruelty. Sorrentinos are terribly predictable.”

No one could threaten something that terrible so casually, so confidently, warning her, unconcerned that she might actually be able to stop it. He must be bluffing. Only he wasn’t. She had only to glance at his face to see that. To glance at his face and then a split second to remember Tina and the Stokeses.

She took a moment to steady herself. Then she stepped closer, leaning in to whisper, “You’re full of shit.”

He turned and met her gaze, smiling. “You keep telling yourself that—”

He stopped as she pressed her weapon into his side.

“A gun, my dear? Really?”

“We’re going to walk—”

He kicked her. She wasn’t prepared for that. She’d been watching his upper body, ready for him to twist, to grab. Instead, he side-kicked her, hard and fast in the calf. As she stumbled, he grabbed for her weapon, only to pull back with a hiss, raising his hand, blood dripping from it.

“Not a gun,” she said as she backed away, her knife out.

It took a few moments for customers to figure out what was happening. Even then, it wasn’t like pulling out a gun, where everyone screams and panics and dives for cover. They just got the hell out of the way, most making a beeline for the door. When neither she nor Malcolm made any effort to stop those fleeing, the rest followed. And since the woman was the one with the knife, obviously no one felt the need to play hero.

“Did you think that was clever?” Malcolm said, waving at the empty store. “A shame, really. You’d have been a good match for Nicky. Equally stupid. Now I don’t need to hurt you quickly.” He smiled. “I can take my time.”

She went for her gun. That was the plan. Clear the shop with the knife. Then pull the gun. But the moment she went for it, he pounced, anticipating the move. She slashed at him, but she was holding the knife in her left hand now, and it was an awkward, weak slice. It still caught him in the cheek, blade splitting the skin. He didn’t even flinch. He hit her knife hand with a chop so hard she heard her wrist snap.

She didn’t have time to even process what happened next. That chop to her wrist. Blinding pain. The knife clattering to the floor. And then she was joining it, flat on her stomach. She reacted, her hands slamming down to propel herself up again, but the second she threw her weight on that injured wrist, it buckled and pain ripped through her. Then she felt a foot on her spine and a hand in her hair, ripping it free of the hastily done twist. Malcolm yanked her head back so far she yelped.

“I can snap your neck and kill you,” he said. “Or break your spine and paralyze you. Choose.”

She reached back with her uninjured hand, her fingers blazing, but he was wise enough to stay clear of her fingers. She had to get her gun—

She couldn’t. His foot pinned her to the floor with her gun crushed beneath her.

You were a fool, she thought. An absolute fool. You knew what he was capable of. You thought you were prepared for it. You weren’t.

“Choose,” he said. “You have five seconds, or I’ll rip your scalp from your head and crush your spine. Then I’ll see how much more amusement I can have before Nicky arrives. Do you want to live paralyzed? Or die? Choose.”

Choose? How did one choose such a thing?

The answer should be obvious: life. And yet …

She swallowed. It didn’t matter. Just buy time. Say she chose to live.

Her mouth opened, and then shut. He wasn’t going to let her survive this. He just wanted her to beg and then, when she thought her life spared, he’d snap her neck.

“Beg or I—”

A scream sounded from the back rooms. Malcolm tensed, and though she couldn’t see him, she knew he was looking over his shoulder. She grabbed her hair, wrenching it from his grip as she rolled from under him. There was a commotion in the back, but he ignored it and knocked her to the floor.

She went for her gun, but in the time it would take her to pull it, he could pin her. She’d lost. There was no way out of this. Nothing to do but her job. Her mission. Finish that and accept whatever came next.

She reached into her pocket and pushed the panic button.

25. NICK

Nick had followed the path easily enough. At first, when it became clear that Vanessa was actually leading Malcolm—their paths had diverged enough that he couldn’t be forcing her somewhere—Nick had been confused. She wouldn’t run from Malcolm when Nick had been right across the road. Once he realized Vanessa’s trail stuck to the sidewalk, he understood her plan: lure Malcolm along an occupied street until he could catch up. She must have been the one who called, to tell him her plan.

So he was no longer barreling down the road, certain she was five seconds from a terrible death. He did lope along the sidewalk, though. As a wolf. In a Detroit suburb. Elena would throttle him. Clay would help.

Under the circumstances, though, there was nothing else he could do. There were no alleys. No maze of side streets and service lanes. This was it—a major suburban thoroughfare in daylight. He could tell himself it wasn’t so bad—it was late morning on a weekday, and the shopping district wasn’t exactly packed. But even if people would only report seeing a huge black dog, he was still in serious shit.

He made good time, if that helped. And once the trail went into the electronics store, he did keep to the service lane that ran alongside the shop, pacing as he figured out his next move.

Vanessa had Malcolm cornered, so to speak, though he doubted Malcolm would agree. Malcolm was, however, unable to kill her in such a public place. They were at a standoff, as Vanessa waited for Nick. No, as she waited for human Nick, with hands that could open the goddamned door.

He could Change back, but that would take too much time. There was only one option: let Vanessa know he was there. That meant letting her see him. He was walking down the service lane, planning to pace in front of the store, when a commotion sounded inside. Sudden chatter, rapid footsteps, the front door opening, then more footsteps as people spilled out.

Nick raced to the sidewalk. The store was emptying fast. People weren’t running panicked, though. They were just getting the hell out of there. Meaning Malcolm had made his move.

Nick ran to the front door, but by the time he reached it, everyone was gone and it was closed. He tore around the back. Someone would come out that way, an employee or a customer. But the door stayed closed.

He strained to hear noises from inside. Nothing. He tried to take comfort in that. Vanessa had her gun. If Malcolm did anything, she’d shoot him. Yet his heart hammered as he paced, desperately struggling for an idea.

Break the front window. No, get a look through that window. Evaluate the situation. Break in if needed.

He was turning to start down the lane again when the rear door creaked open. He crouched, waiting and watching as the door slowly opened, and then—

Nick shot forward. A young clerk let out a shriek. Nick knocked him flying and scrambled through. He raced along the narrow back hall, knocking over everything in his path. Finally he saw the half-open door to the shop floor ahead.

Nick smacked the door open with his muzzle and charged through. He saw Vanessa and Malcolm, grappling on the floor. It was no contest. Malcolm was only trying to get a better grip on his prey, and as soon as he found it …

As Nick raced over, they both stopped. Vanessa’s elbow shot up, slamming Malcolm in the jaw. It was enough to make him fall back. He could have recovered, but Nick was barreling straight at them, and Malcolm wasn’t about to ignore a charging wolf. As Vanessa reached for her gun, Malcolm gave her a shove. Then he ran.

Malcolm tore around a display and made a beeline for the rear door. Nick glanced back at Vanessa.

“Go!” she said. “I’ve called them. They’re coming. I’ll lead them to you.”

He took off after Malcolm.

A healthy ego is a wonderful thing. An overinflated one, though? That gets you into trouble. Antonio had taught Nick that, clamping down whenever he got a little too cocky about the numerous gifts life had bestowed on him.

Malcolm’s ego failed him as soon as he got out that rear door. He should have run for the street. Nick might break the rules enough to race along it in wolf form at midday, but he’d never take down Malcolm there.

But running to the safety of humans was more than Malcolm’s ego could bear. He tore along the service lane. Then he grabbed a fire escape ladder. He was ten feet up when Nick sprinted and leapt. He’d been aiming to grab Malcolm by the back of the shirt, but that, he realized, had been a bit of ego on his own part. He managed to snag Malcolm’s foot. He clamped down hard, though, and when he dropped, Malcolm dropped with him.

They fought. Nick hadn’t Changed just so he could better track Malcolm—being in wolf form was the only way he’d get the upper hand in a fight. Malcolm didn’t concede easily, though. Nick tore at him with fang and claw, ripping through fabric and flesh, and Malcolm kicked and punched, aiming for Nick’s stomach, eyes, muzzle, all the sensitive spots. Soon Nick was fighting through a haze of pain and blood.

He could lose. He hadn’t considered that. A match between a wolf and an unarmed man clearly favored the beast. But Malcolm was on a whole other level, and it wasn’t just martial superiority. Malcolm was fighting for his life, and that seemed to numb him against every injury.

When Malcolm’s fist connected with the side of Nick’s skull, the sledgehammer drive knocked Nick unconscious. It was only a second’s dip into blackness before he yanked himself out, but it would have been enough for Malcolm to get free. Escape and run. Instead, he grabbed Nick’s muzzle to break his neck. And it was then that Nick realized Malcolm wasn’t the only one fighting for his life.

Malcolm meant to kill him. The surprise of that realization almost made Nick laugh. Had he really doubted it? After what Malcolm had done to Tina and the Stokeses? Yes, he had, because no matter how hard he tried to convince Vanessa of Malcolm’s lethality, he’d considered himself exempt.

He was not exempt. And that was, it turned out, exactly the motivation he needed to dig deeper, fight harder. He clawed and snapped and threw himself into the fight as he never had before, and when he finally got Malcolm pinned, it came almost as a shock. But he was upright and Malcolm was on his back and Nick had his jaws around Malcolm’s throat.

One chomp. That’s all it would take, and the most dangerous wolf the Pack had ever known would be vanquished. By the omega wolf. Yet Nick didn’t think for a moment how sweet that would be. How fittingly ignoble an end. He thought only of his duty. His mission was to find Malcolm. Not to kill him. That right belonged to Clay.

But Nick could not let Malcolm go. Clay wouldn’t want that. Yes, Clay would love to kill the bastard himself, but ending Malcolm’s life—by any means—was more important.

Nick pulled back for the killing bite. As he swung down, he saw the look in Malcolm’s eyes. The rage. The shame. The humiliation. And yes, it was sweet.

Then he heard a shout. Vanessa. That stopped him mid-lunge. Malcolm tried to buck up, but Nick had him firmly pinned. Another shout. A different voice now. Not so much a shout as a snarl of rage.

Clay.

Something hit Nick in the shoulder, and for a moment he thought it was Clay, and confusion flashed through him.

I was doing the right thing. I wasn’t stealing your kill. I—

That’s when he heard the shot, as if his brain delayed processing it. He heard the shot and then another, and shouts and bellows of rage and fear.

Nick had been shot.

Malcolm reared up again. Nick tried to hold him, but Malcolm managed to chop him in the shoulder, exactly where the bullet had penetrated, and it was too much. Nick staggered enough for Malcolm to scramble out from under him.

Malcolm ran. When Nick tried to follow, his injured shoulder gave way. He glanced back. Clay, Elena, and Reese were running toward him, as Vanessa, Jayne, and Rhys subdued two men with guns—werewolf hunters, he presumed. They were still fifty feet back, not much beyond the shop door. Malcolm was escaping. Nick lurched after him but couldn’t manage more than a hobbling lope.

“Stay there!” Elena said, racing up, in the lead. “We’ve got this. Reese? Stay with Nick. Get that bleeding under control.”

Reese slowed. Elena and Clay raced past him, but Nick knew it was too late. Malcolm was gone. They’d lost him.

26. NICK

They were in a hotel room—Nick, Elena, Clay, Reese, Vanessa, and Rhys. Jayne had already departed with backup to recover Tina’s body. Rhys had bound Vanessa’s wrist at the scene. Then they’d grabbed food, and the werewolves were now ripping through it as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

Vanessa and Rhys watched them, bemused, as if wondering how anyone could have an appetite after the last few hours. But it was precisely that close call that gave them the appetite. This was a celebration. Yes, as Nick predicted, Malcolm had escaped. But they hadn’t lost him. He was right there, a blip on a screen, tracked by the microchip Vanessa had implanted during their fight. It was the best on the market—the black market, that is—the kind of tech the CIA would deny even existed. And the kind of tech Malcolm was never going to find with all his cuts and gouges.

Elena was in charge of the tracking box. Rhys gave it to her as he took Vanessa off to talk shop, leaving the werewolves to finish their meal.

“If you keep checking that, you’ll start seeing blips in your sleep,” Reese said, as Elena glanced at the device for the hundredth time.

“Just making sure it doesn’t stop moving until he’s long gone.”

“Unless it stops because he’s decided to give up,” Clay said through a mouthful of burger. “Save us the trouble and off himself, unable to live with the humiliation.”

“Of nearly dying at my hands?” Nick said.

“Of nearly dying at the hands of anyone he considers his inferior, which goes for 99.9 percent of the population.”

“You don’t need to qualify that. Getting killed by me would have been the worst possible fate. I could see it in his eyes. He was pissed.”

Clay grinned. “Looked good on him. Too bad those moron bounty hunters interfered. Would have been a fitting end for Malcolm Danvers.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Elena said, stealing a handful of fries from Clay. “I think living with the humiliation for a while will be even better. He knows Nick had him. He was saved by happenstance. That’s going to sting for a long time.”

“Right into his afterlife,” Clay said. “Which will come soon.”

“So what’s next?” Reese asked.

“We let him get comfortable,” Elena said. “Lower his guard. This little tracker means we don’t need to worry about him coming after the Pack. If he sets foot in New York State, we’ll take him down. Otherwise, I’ll track him until he figures he’s safe. Then Clay and I will take a well-deserved vacation.”

“Culminating in the death of Malcolm Danvers,” Clay said.

“And the hunters?” Reese asked. He’d interrogated the one he’d chased and gotten contact information for the guy setting the bounties.

Elena chewed a fry before answering. The hunters were a nuisance, to be sure. Possibly a deadly one. But she had Malcolm to worry about.

“I can take that,” Nick said. “Pay the guy a visit. Convince him it’s not a good idea to put out bounties on us.”

“I’ll run backup,” Reese said. “We might even get Morgan to come along. He should be home by then.”

Elena looked at Nick. “You sure?”

“I can handle it.”

She met his gaze. “I wasn’t asking that. Obviously you can handle it. But Karl’s up on the duty roster. I can send him if you want a break.”

“Nah, I’m on the case already. I might as well stay on it. Compared to hunting Malcolm, this should be a breeze.”

“Famous last words,” Clay said.

Nick laughed, and they continued plowing through the meal.

Malcolm had indeed vacated the state. Heading west. Far west. Licking his wounds. Clay and Elena had already left, eager to get back before the kids returned that evening.

Nick was riding back with Reese. First, they dropped Rhys and Vanessa off at the airport. Nick hadn’t had a moment alone with Vanessa since that morning, so he accompanied her into the terminal, carrying her bag on his uninjured shoulder. Once inside, Rhys went off to buy the tickets.

“You’re going to stop at Stonehaven, right?” Vanessa said. “Let Jeremy take a look at your shoulder when he gets home tonight?”

“I am, though I’m sure he’ll say that Rhys’s first-aid job is all it needs. That and some rest. Werewolves heal fast.”

She nodded and hoisted her purse with her good arm. “Okay …”

“I’d like to see you again.”

She smiled. “To cash that rain check?”

He laughed. “No. Well, yes, but I’d just … I’d like to see you again.”

“I could come along and help you fix this werewolf bounty mess.”

“Ah. Okay. I’ll take the hint. You can just say no. You wanted a fling. I understand that—”

She cut him off with a kiss, laughing when he started in surprise.

“Sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t resist. I definitely want to see you again, Nick. But if we make it dinner, then we have to figure out where to meet and who travels, and it becomes this big production, with expectations and pressure and …” She made a face. “General awkwardness. I’m too old for that. But I would like to spend more time with you, see what happens. I think the best way we can do that is to work together on another case.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Is that a yes?”

He leaned down and kissed her. “Yes.”