“Next deal?” Lucien asked, sounding genuinely surprised.
“The deal we make for me to pay my debt to you for attacking Clint.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
“You have enough minions. You don’t need me.”
“Ah, but you are special. I enjoy collecting unique things.” Lucien’s lips puckered out in a pout, looking decisively child-like.
It took a lot of self-control to ignore the absurdity of that look and not comment on it, or attack him. I focused on his words instead. He collected unique things? Like Clint? As much as I wanted to solve the puzzle of “What The Fuck Is Clint,” now was not the time. “Name your price, Lucien. I’m not a collector’s item. I won’t be chained to you. I can’t be. The SRD considers it a Conflict of Interest.”
Lucien sighed and inspected his nails. “If you were my minion, you’d have no need for the SRD. But if you insist…” The clock ticked and ticked after his sentence trailed off. About to say something snide, I had to shut my mouth when he spoke up, “Bring me Ethan’s head.”
When I didn’t reply right away, Lucien looked up from his manicured fingernails. My mind blanked of all thought, then slowly, white hot rage consumed every neuron in my brain. I clenched my toes in my shoes and counted to ten. Then I counted to one hundred.
“You expect me to take down an entire horde of Vampires and a pride of Wereleopards?” I asked. I let it come out as pissed off as I felt.
“No. I only asked for Ethan’s head.”
I balked.
“I will send Wick to take care of the rest.”
“Only Wick?”
Lucien scoffed—a condescending sound that grated against my skin. “You mortals are so outrageous. Of course not. Wick will lead his pack and Allan will accompany him with his elite crew.”
“I’m sure they could take Ethan’s head.”
“Ah, but I want it to be you.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Booth.” The agent’s voice scratched my ear from the other end of the line when she answered the phone with her own name.
“It’s Andy.”
“McNeilly.” Her tone hardened. What was her problem? We weren’t exactly besties, but I thought we were on better terms than her crisp speech implied.
“Is this a good time?” I asked.
“No.” A long pause stretched, long enough for her to elaborate or throw me a bone for when I could call back, but she did neither.
“Okay…”
Another pause.
“When would be a good time?” I asked.
“I’ll call you.” Click.
I stared at the receiver for a moment, dumbstruck the cow had hung up on me.
“What did the SRD say?” Wick’s voice pierced the silence.
I slammed the phone down on its charger and whirled around to find Wick leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed and his long frame filling up the small space.
“Apparently Agent Booth had more pressing things to discuss, so she’ll call me.” I tried to imitate her voice, but I couldn’t get the voice husky or deep enough.
Wick raised an eyebrow. “Does she sound that bad?”
“Worse.”
Wick shuddered and unfolded his long muscular frame to step into the room. “Why don’t you call your handler? What’s his name? O’Donnell?”
“Yeah that’s him. Wiley old coyote. I’d call him, except Booth demanded I report to her directly.”
“Have you checked your phone?”
“No, why?”
“Check it.” He sprawled on the bed, turned onto his side and propped his head on his hand.
I tapped my phone screen to discover I had missed a barrage of messages. Huh? I looked up at Wick. He waved me to go ahead and read them. It took me seconds to grasp the situation. “We’re going in tonight?” My voice came out flat.
Wick nodded.
“Doesn’t give me much time to prepare.”
“What do you need?”
Sighing, I thunked my head against the carpeted floor. “Nothing. Everything.”
“Not sure I can help with that.”
“I need to get my thoughts straight. Mentally prepare.”
“You are the big bad SRD assassin.”
“I used to be. Life with your pack is making me soft.” I held my hand up against Wick’s brilliant smile. “That’s not a compliment.”
“I’m still taking it as one.”
“Ugh. Alphas.” I stretched and got up. “Let’s hash out the details. That will help me get back into SRD mode.”
Wick sat up and patted the bed beside him. “Okay.”
His actions appeared innocent, but the sharp gleam in his eyes and not-quite-relaxed posture told a different story. I didn’t trust him and I didn’t trust myself. I pulled up a chair to sit across from him instead. “No hanky panky.”