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Desmond looked at me with an unexpected pang of sadness and guilt, and I immediately regretted saying it. “Yes. So I know exactly how it feels to see the woman I love die. And this time around I might not be lucky enough to get a second chance.
“What do you want me to say, Des? I can’t quit my job. Not only does it matter to me, it’s also important, and I’m one of very few people who can do it as well as I do.”
“I’d like you to reconsider my offer.”
I lay there in silence and looked back at the muted TV. “You know it’s not that easy. If I agree to become a wolf again, to get re-Awakened, or whatever we want to call it. Born Again Werewolf? I don’t know. But if I do it, my time in Los Angeles is over.”
“Would that be so bad?”
I was quiet for a long time, not able to properly put into words why it would feel like I was giving up a huge part of my life if I had to leave L.A. How could I make it make sense without hurting him?
I was silent too long.
He patted my feet again before getting up. “There’s sunshine here too, you know.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
My marital discord would need to wait a little longer to be resolved. I knew I couldn’t keep putting Desmond off forever, and in the back of my mind I’d already resolved myself to letting him turn me into a werewolf again.
That solution made the most sense, there was no doubt. I just hoped I could make amends with the King of the West first, and find a way to be a werewolf queen and work out of the L.A. office.
I’d need to remember to call my uncle Callum, King of the South, and see what sort of diplomacy might be involved in getting the western pack king to accept my presence.
I knew it was going to require a l
ot of sucking up and groveling. If the guy had been open to being paid off, it would be so much easier, but werewolf royalty was big on ego, and I’d hurt his pride by encroaching on his turf. Nothing about this would be easy.
I’d talk to Desmond about my misgivings later over dinner, which would give me most of the afternoon to think about how best to approach things. A combination of hard truth and blow jobs was usually the most successful approach when it came to my husband.
Not really a magic formula, I guess.
Shane was waiting for me when I parked in front of The Plaza and handed my keys to the valet. I didn’t say I’d murder him if anything happened to the BMW, but I certainly suggested it loudly with my expression. The Z5 was a custom build that had been given to me years earlier by Lucas, and to my knowledge might be the only one of its kind, with its bright yellow finish and the added bonus of an actual backseat.
It had also survived nearly as much violence and mayhem as I had, and I wasn’t about to let the thing that killed it be an eighteen-year-old valet with hints of a tattoo creeping up out of the neck of his uniform shirt.
Shane, on the other hand, did nothing to hide the tattoos that covered his arms top to bottom. He was wearing a short-sleeve shirt even though it was still only spring in Manhattan and what one might classify kindly as jacket weather. Apparently to be a big, scary vampire hunter, he also had to appear like he wasn’t afraid of little things like being cold.
What a tough guy.
“You know, God invented leather jackets for a reason,” I told him as we entered the hotel. I pointed to my own, a wide-lapelled one that cost about as much as my old apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. “You can look both menacing and stay warm.”
“Got some fae goo all over mine last night out in the Bronx. Not all of us have a no-balance Amex. I’m going to need to wait for my next job from the Tribunal before I can replace it.”
I started to say something when he waved his hand at me. “Don’t you dare offer to buy me one. I’m thrifty, not a charity case.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that.”
“I know, but you’re like legit rich now. You’d buy me something so expensive I’d feel weird wearing it. I’m the kind of guy who needs one secondhand that was already broken in by some seventies gutter punk named Tito, and has parts of it held together by safety pins.”
“Pretty sure something like that would qualify as vintage now and probably cost more than if I did buy you a brand-new one, but you do you, buddy.”
With Shane in tow I knew sweet-talking at the front desk wasn’t going to fly. It looked like I was trying to bring my drug dealer into the hotel with me. I made a beeline for the concierge and plopped my official FBI badge down on the desk in front of him.
He glanced up at me, clearly eager to help.
“I’m Special Director Secret McQueen, and this is my associate Shane Hewitt. We’d sincerely appreciate you skipping over the part where you pretend there aren’t any apartments in the building, and buzz us up to Ingrid’s floor. We are looking for her assistance in an ongoing missing person’s case.”
The man held up the badge like he was checking to confirm I hadn’t gotten it out of a box of cereal. I pulled a business card out of my pocket and slid it across the counter to him.
