For a Few Demons More(90)

Eyes flicking from him to the narrow road, I stewed, not just about Jenks but about Tom’s request. It was never good to be offered a place in a wacko organization, especially when you tell them to shove their high ideals and their glorious work.

There was a soft pull on my chi, and my gaze hit the rearview mirror. My breath caught, and I almost drove right off the pavement when Tom turned his back on me and vanished.

Holy crap, he jumped to a line. Worried, I adjusted my grip on the wheel, alternating my focus from the road to where he had been as if it had been a mistake. He was good enough to use the lines to travel, and he was only a minor member?

Damn, who exactly had I just insulted?





SEVENTEEN


David’s car windows were down, and the cool damp of the late afternoon felt good lifting through my hair. The complex scent of Were mixed with the smell of the riverfront, and I snuck a glance at David across the short width of his sports car. He had on his long leather duster and matching hat, and though he would probably be more comfortable with the air on, he hadn’t suggested it—Jenks was on my big hoop earring, and quick temperature changes wreaked havoc with his small body mass. It was easier to sweat a little than listen to Jenks bitch about being cold. We were almost to Piscary’s anyway.

Upon coming home from Spring Grove, I’d found a second message on the machine, the red light blinking like a ticking bomb. My first thought that it might be Ivy proved false. It was Mrs. Sarong’s new aide. The owner of the Howlers wanted to meet with me, too. And seeing that the I.S. was blowing off the murder of her aide as a suicide, it was probable she wanted me to find out who had done it. Liking the idea of catching three paychecks with one job, I changed the location of my meeting with Mr. Simon Ray to a neutral place, then agreed to meet Mrs. Sarong at the same time. If nothing else, I’d find out if they were killing each other.

The tension in David’s hands on the wheel increased as he made a right turn into the almost-deserted lot at Piscary’s. The two-story bar/ tavern was closed until five, when it opened for the Inderland lunch hour, and I thought it made the perfect neutral ground. Kisten had set new hours shortly after they’d lost their Mixed Public License—MPL for short—and went to an all-vamp clientele. The bar would be empty but for Kisten and a few waitstaff prepping for the day. Besides, doing this where Kisten could step in if needed was just good planning.

Nervous, I checked to see that I had my bag with my charms and splat gun, a fresh batch of sleepy-time potions in the hopper. David parked smoothly in an outer spot where he wouldn’t have to back up to leave. Saying nothing, he popped the trunk and got out while I sat in the car and turned my phone to vibrate. It had been a very quiet ride over here; David’s mind was clearly on his girlfriends, both living and dead.

I hadn’t been keen on his coming with me, but he did have a car, and I was meeting with two alphas of Cincy’s more prominent packs. Jenks said David had a right to be there as my alpha, and I trusted his judgment. Besides, I had worked with David before. Though distracted, he was better at reacting to violence than his easygoing looks would indicate.

“Ready, Jenks?” I whispered as David thunked the trunk shut.

“Soon as you get your lily-white witch ass outta this car,” Jenks said sarcastically.

Ignoring that, I dropped my phone into my bag and got out. I scanned the lot, enjoying the cooler air off the river that set a few strands of my hair to drift. Kisten’s boat was at the quay, and I started to the front door with a slow pace. David fell into step beside me, his eyes seeing everything from under his worn brown leather hat. “What was in the trunk?” I asked, and my eyes widened when he opened his coat and let me glimpse a big-ass rifle.

“I know these people,” he said, his expression going hard. “We handle their insurance.”

Oka-a-a-ay, I thought, hoping I wouldn’t have to pull the little red splat gun tucked in my bag. They’d laugh themselves silly. Until the first of them dropped, that is.

There was an unfamiliar black Jag and an H2 pulled up to the front, clearly not belonging to the waitstaff. Someone had beaten us here, despite my efforts to be the first and take the high ground. Mr. Ray, I’d be willing to bet, as I credited Mrs. Sarong with more class than to cart her people around in a yellow Hummer—as cool as that appeared to be. I glanced back at David’s sports car, missing the freedom to jump into my red convertible and go. A sigh moved through me.

“Whatsa matter, Rache?” Jenks asked, still on my shoulder and remarkably quiet.

“I need to work on my image,” I muttered, pulling up the waistband of my leather pants and trying to keep up with David’s long strides. Leather was my fabric of choice when I was on a run; if I went sliding on the pavement, I didn’t want to leave a skin graft. I had on a matching biker’s cap with the Harley logo, and my vamp-made boots that kept my steps silent. My black leather jacket was too hot, and though it ruined the look, I removed it to leave only my chemise.