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"If he's killed Nasia, he's probably already tried to kill his mother."
"True. He always did intend Rupert to be the next Helki alpha."
Obviously, there was no love for Mom, despite the fact she helped him to the throne. "We have Rupert, as well."
"Then I hope you get the location of the lab fast, because he will burn it from their minds."
"Even if that happens, you still know the location. You can tell me."
"Only if I'm alive."
I raised an eyebrow at that. "And here I was thinking you were acting rather blase about the threat to your life."
"Blase? Far from it. Why do you think I've been living here twenty-four seven this last week?"
"Here?" I waved a hand toward the window. "With all this glass about? How is that safe?"
"That glass is bulletproof. I replaced the original glass when I had the building refitted a few years ago."
"Given the fact your master is into creating the weird and the not-so-wonderful, I wouldn't be banking on the fact that he can't get something in here."
"Whoever wants to come into this office has to do so through the Fravardin."
"All he really needs to do is set a bomb or use a rocket launcher, and you, this building, and the Fravardin are all dust." Taking me along with them if the attack happened right now.
"But that's not even remotely subtle. He cannot afford to draw attention to himself until his base of power is secure."
"Uh-huh." I reached behind me, grabbed Misha's hands and pulled them away. "Let me state what you already know - I'm not having sex with you tonight. Not here. Not until whatever is going to happen happens."
"We had a deal."
"That deal was us meeting at the Rocker, nothing more."
He grimaced, though the effect was rather spoiled by the glimmer in his eyes. I was guessing he pretty much thought he was the winner here anyway - because I was with him, and not with someone else.
"I knew I should have widened the terms of reference." He walked across the room to the bar. "He won't attack me here. He's well aware that I'm very secure in my foxhole."
He offered me a beer and I shook my head. "All foxholes have weaknesses, Misha."
"Not this one."
"You certain of that?"
"Yes."
It was at that precise moment that the lights went out. had come and gone, and the night was cold. The wind blustered around me, its touch icy, as if it had come directly from the Antarctic. Shivering, I rubbed my arms, and wished I'd put on something warmer than a long-sleeved cotton top. At least I could be thankful I'd chosen jeans and sneakers rather than the skirt and sandals I'd originally intended. But what I wasn't thankful for was the premonition that had told me I'd need something tougher - that a skirt and sandals wasn't up to what I had to do tonight.
I didn't want another psychic talent - especially one that popped in whenever it pleased. But that same intuition said my choice in this mattered as little as my choice in other areas of my life. I was becoming something more than just a dhampire. What that something was, not even a blossoming new talent could tell. One thing was certain - I wasn't about to let Jack know. Not until I was totally sure this clairvoyance thing was a developing talent, and not some weird mutation of the fear that sat like a weight in my gut.
The restaurant came into sight across the other side of the road. I paused, gaze raking the old, Victorian-style building, searching for a glimpse of my quarry in the corner windows. Only one woman sat alone, and she was positioned at the far end of the building.
After looking around to ensure no one was near or watching, I wrapped myself in shadows and moved toward the foreshore. Streetlights cast pools of yellow across the empty pavement, and the headlights of passing cars ran across the nearby darkness, threatening to tear the shadows from my side. I stashed my clothes and shifted shape, released the veil of darkness, and in wolf form wove my way through the scrubby tea trees until I was directly opposite the window in which the lone woman sat.
She was nothing special - dark hair cut into a severe bob, a roman nose that was accentuated by a gold ring, and a large, almost manly chin. Her hands, clasped in front of her on the table, also looked more male than female. The man who'd been Mrs. Hunt hadn't been the image of female perfection, either. Was that a telltale sign of shifters who could take either male or female form?
I sat on my haunches, and wondered what the time was. It had been close to eight when I'd parked the car, and it had probably taken me five minutes or so to walk here. But if the woman at that table was worried by Roberta Whitby's lateness, it wasn't showing yet.
The wind shook the branches of the trees around me, showering the ground and me with tiny gray-green leaves. I was about to shake them from my fur when I caught two sounds - the first, a twig snapping lightly. The second, the brush of nylon against sharp leaves.
