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“What the hell just happened?” I said, pulling away from his grip and taking a step back.
“Nothing,” he said, voice clipped. “The connection simply became stronger than I’d intended.”
“So you didn’t cause—” I paused. “—whatever the hell that was?”
“No.”
“Then how did it happen? And what did happen?”
He shrugged and glanced down at the rat shifter—not letting me see his eyes, I thought. Then, as Valdis’s fire faded to blue, I realized he was simply getting himself under control. Which meant that whatever had happened had shaken him as badly as it had shaken me.
“We are Chi-linked. I did not expect it to affect the simple act of mind sharing, but it appears I was wrong.”
“But that sensation was—” Erotic. A blush crept across my cheeks. Damn, I couldn’t admit that out loud. Not to a reaper. Not to him. So I simply added, “Unusual.”
“Yes. As I said, somehow the fact we are connected on a Chi level enabled the connection to deepen. What you felt—” He paused and rose, finally meeting my gaze. His expression was carefully neutral, and the fire in his eyes had disappeared. “What you felt was the energy of my true self.”
It was more than that. He knew it, and I knew it. But he obviously wasn’t going to admit it or explain it any more than he had.
I flexed my fingers, still feeling the energy of his touch on my arm—just as I could still feel the remnants of that connection burning deep inside. I suspected it wouldn’t be something I’d easily forget.
Yet I had to. No good would ever come of it. Both instinct and head were suggesting that, and I believed them both.
“What do you wish done with the shifter?” he said calmly, as if he weren’t aware of my thoughts or the tumult that still burned within me.
I took a deep breath that did little to calm anything, and said, “Can you get a name out of him?”
He nodded, then bent down and touched the shifter’s forehead again. “James Larson. He’s a small-time thief who generally survives by picking pockets at the St. Kilda market.”
“I wonder why my father chose him to deliver the book.”
Azriel shrugged as he rose. “That is something you will have to ask your father.”
And my father was about as easy to get a straight answer from as Azriel. And he was a whole lot more difficult to find. “Can you erase any memory of us questioning him from Larson’s mind? You never know; my father might decide to use him again.”
“He will not remember us. I have already ensured that.”
“Good.” I glanced at my watch. I really needed to get going if I was going to meet Mike in time. Then I had to get over to the Brindle. And if I didn’t start doing some work on Hunter’s case, the shit was going to hit the fan—although Hunter herself had yet to come through with her list. Nor had Catherine Alston. It was rather hard to follow up on things when I wasn’t getting full cooperation. But maybe that was the whole point. Maybe Madeline—or rather, the council—just wanted to see how I coped on my own.
“If these lists are important to solving this case, why not simply call her and ask for them?”
I snorted softly. “Because I’d really prefer to keep my contact with Hunter to a minimum.”
“But would it not be better to solve this case quickly? That would at least prove to the council you are capable of such tasks.”
Just what I needed—a practical reaper. “If I don’t get them by the time I’ve seen Mike, I will call. In the meantime, you want to lead the way out of this maze?”
He nodded and brushed past me, his arm barely touching mine but electric all the same. This was crazy, I thought, following him out of the darkness. I mean, he was a reaper. He didn’t do humans. There might not be any hope of a real and lasting relationship with Lucian, either, but at least with him I could settle for amazing sex.
Light began to filter through the darkness, and the stairs became visible. We climbed them quickly and headed out of the building.
“I shall keep my distance for the time being,” Azriel said. “But call if you need assistance at the witch depository.”
I nodded, although I didn’t think the Brindle witches would take too kindly to an armed reaper walking among them. As he winked out of existence, I walked down the street and looked for a cab.
It was just after three by the time I got to Mike’s. He lived within walking distance of our apartment, in a small single-fronted terrace that served as both his office and—on the floor above—his residence.
As the cab sped away, I climbed the steps and pressed the intercom button. “It’s Risa Jones, here to see Mike.”
