Nightbred(58)

She stepped out from behind the hood and threw a unit of blood at the van’s windshield; it burst and covered the glass and part of the hood with blood. With the nine-millimeter she’d taken out of the cooler, she shot out both front tires, and put another three rounds into the van’s engine before she dropped the hood on the rental, climbed in behind the wheel, and sped off.

Where there were tresori, there were bound to be backup tresori, so Chris drove around Miami until she was certain she wasn’t being tailed. Dumb and Dumber didn’t belong to Alenfar or she would have recognized their faces, which meant they’d been brought in from another territory. She could describe them to Jamys and see if they matched anyone who served his father, but most American tresori wouldn’t have fallen for her stalled-car routine. She’d bet money they were European—maybe a couple of trackers working for the council or even Tremayne.

But why follow me? In the grand scheme of things, Chris knew she was less than nobody.

The sun was setting by the time she returned to Biscayne Bay, and once she parked the rental, she walked down the dock to the boat. None of the fisherman she passed seemed out of place, and none of her internal alarms were going off, but once she and Jamys saw Gifford tonight, it would probably be safer to move the boat to a different spot.

She could hear the shower running belowdecks as soon as she climbed on board, and smiled a little as she brought the cooler down and left it on the table. She had to make another trip to the car to get the rest of her shopping bags, but by the time she returned, Jamys was waiting on deck for her.

“Christian.” He took her bags and set them aside before he lifted her from the dock to the boat. “What is all this?”

“Clothes, shoes, girl stuff, that kind of thing.” She hugged him, drawing back only when he didn’t return the embrace. “You found my note, right?”

“Yes.” He took her right hand and brought it up to his face, but he didn’t kiss it. “You smell of blood and gunpowder.”

“I had to shoot a van. I picked up some stores for you, did you see the cooler?” She carried the bags below, where she began to put everything away. “I bought the most amazing dress. You have to take me somewhere nice someday so I can wear it and make all the other women hate me.”

He was staring at her. “You shot a van?”

“Yeah, after I threw blood at it.” She checked her watch. “We should leave soon; Gifford’s lecture starts in an hour.” She held up a jumper to her front. “Does this make me look scholarly, geeky, or just sad?”

He took the jumper from her and tossed it onto the bunk. “Tell me about this van.”

Chris dropped the perky-teen act. “Two guys followed me into the blood bank. Clean-cut, dark suits, not too bright. I tried to outrun them, and when I couldn’t, I took out their ride, which was the van.”

His expression darkened. “Were they mortals or Kyn warriors?”

“I think they were tresori.” She went and sat down on the edge of the bunk, and rested her elbows on her knees. “But one of them had a really creepy tat.” After she described the mutilated black cameo, she glanced up at him. “The scarring was too perfect for it to be accidental. Would the Brethren have done that to him? Wait, never mind.” She mentally kicked herself for reminding him of his own ordeal.

“They have been known to cut off tattoos from captured tresori,” he said slowly, “but it would be in their interests to preserve the likeness of any Kyn lord.” He sat down beside her. “Do not be afraid to speak of anything to me, Christian. I am your friend.”

“I know, I just hate reminding you of the bad old days.” She used her shoulder to give his a gentle bump. “We should get going.”

Jamys pulled her onto his lap and kissed her until she forgot to breathe. When he lifted his mouth from hers, he said, “Wear the dress.”

“It’s a lecture in a museum, not a night at the Mynt Lounge,” she reminded him. “But I could model it for you later.”





Chapter 13

Lectures at the Miami Maritime Museum were well attended, and Jamys and Christian arrived shortly before all the folding chairs provided for the audience filled up. Others stood as the museum’s director introduced Professor Charles Gifford, a short, thick-bodied man who looked distinctly ill at ease in his tweed suit.

“He looks like a repo guy,” Christian murmured.

Jamys spotted the scars on his hands and forearms. “He was a fisherman.”

“Good evening,” the professor said, and launched immediately into a talk about piracy and its evolution through the ages.