“Are you all right?”
She nodded but didn’t speak.
“You only used it for a second,” I said, assuming she was upset because she’d used her power.
“I used it to damage property in front of humans. They’re not even supposed to know sorcerers exist, much less see me threaten them.”
Sorcerers were among the last of the supernaturals still unknown to humans.
“You were protecting me,” I pointed out. “And it’s not like you shot a lightning bolt into the streetlight. They probably think it was a coincidence.”
Mallory sighed and rubbed her temples. “Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. Either way, I’m not sure Gabriel will care. I broke. That’s what it comes down to. I broke, and he’ll know it.”
“And you have to tell him?”
She gave me a flat look. “You want me to try to hide something from the Apex predator of the North American Central Pack? He’s a werewolf, for God’s sake. He could sniff out the lie, even if I didn’t tell him, no pun intended.”
“I’m sorry, Mal. But thanks for sticking up for me. And for the car.”
“Don’t thank me for that. It’s not exactly in one piece.” Mallory leaned forward and looked through the cracked window at the dented hood of the car. “The assholes took their toll.”
“Assholes often do.”
“That’s a Billboard Top Forty song waiting to happen.”
“Sung to the tune of ‘There’ll Be Sad Songs,’” I suggested, then offered up a lyric. “‘There’ll be assholes, to make you cry.’”
“‘Assholes often dooo,’” Mallory sang. “You’re right. That’s not bad.” She sighed and pulled up her knees, resting her forehead on them. “My life sucks.”
“It sucks because you’re trying to do the right thing, but the result isn’t showing it. You’re at the stage where good intentions meet crappy abilities. Welcome to my first eleven months as a vampire.”
“You’ve only been a vampire for ten months.”
“My point exactly.”
She chuckled a bit, which had been my motive.
“It gets easier,” I said.
“You didn’t have to adjust under the watchful eye of Gabriel Keene.”
“You’re right. I only had to adjust under the watchful eye of Ethan Sullivan. That was an utter cakewalk.”
“You’re really going to try to outdo me on this one?”
“You’re the one who coined the term ‘Darth Sullivan,’” I reminded her. “Besides, I wouldn’t have let you slide a year ago, before you got your magic. I figure I probably shouldn’t let you slide now.”
She looked at me and smiled, just a little. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad you’re here, too,” I said.
We reached Ukrainian Village. My ears and fingers aching with cold, I gratefully pulled the Volvo into a parking spot in front of the brick building that housed Little Red.
The shifters must have had enough of cold, as the parking spots in front of the bar were empty of expensive, custom motorcycles.
“Closed down for the winter?” I wondered aloud.
“Only the transpo,” Mallory said. “Shifters don’t care to ride in icy wind and below-zero temps.”
Having driven without a window for the last few minutes, I understood the sentiment.
I turned off the engine, but we sat in the car for a moment. “Are you ready?”
“Not really,” she said. “But a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do, and all that idiomatic bullshit.”
She blew out a breath and opened the car door, and I wished her the best.
—
The bar was a classic dive, with scuffed floors, beat-up tables, and hard-bitten customers. A low, sad tune played on the jukebox—a crooning country music song from the seventies or eighties, when buckles were big and hair was bigger.
The bar wasn’t exactly easy on the eyes or the ears, but tonight it smelled deliciously of sweet and spicy tomatoes, probably the sauce for the Pack’s signature barbecue, the pride of its new catering operation.
Gabriel Keene, who stood in front of the bar’s large plate-glass window, was a predator personified. He was tall and square shouldered, with tawny, shoulder-length hair and amber eyes that gleamed when they caught the light. He wore jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and black boots that looked like they could do some damage. Not that he needed the accessories. There was power in the sweep of his shoulders and his wide-legged stance.
Shifters were an odd breed. They were tough, and they loved fine whiskey and chromed-out bikes. But they also had a strong connection to nature. They were the hippies of the supernatural world—if hippies wore biker boots and rode asphalt-pounding Harleys.