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I knuckled my eyes.
Think. Where would he go?
Not to his father. Moreau had planted enough doubt that I was reasonably certain Zaq wouldn’t contact Karoly. Not yet.
But he might try to get in touch with his brothers. Last I’d heard, Rafe was in Montreal, but Gabriel was in New York.
So what was the worst that could happen if Zaq got in touch with Gabriel? Gabriel knew his attacker had been from SI. Zaq couldn’t add much to that except to tell his brother about me.
Okay. I drew a centering breath through my nostrils.
I knew I should contact Crow, explain what had happened and ask how to proceed. If I stayed at the squat, Zaq might return with reinforcements, but I didn’t think he would.
He was smart enough to know that if he returned with reinforcements, he might make things worse. Taking me out wouldn’t save his brothers. They’d still be in danger.
Plus, the man was a lone wolf. He went his own way, did his own thing—like taking a commercial flight instead of a private jet, and traveling without a staff to smooth his way.
So if Zaq had left, it was to do his lone-wolf thing, something he wanted to investigate on his own.
So. I’d leave the squat but remain in the area in case he returned.
And I wouldn’t contact Crow. Not yet, anyway.
I waited for hours. Forcing myself to remain within sight of the squat even though every muscle and bone and nerve in my body screamed to go after Zaq.
Finally, around one a.m., my patience was rewarded.
I’d moved every half-hour so as not to attract attention. Currently I was hunkered down on the curb outside a bodega, nursing a cream soda. The street had emptied until it was just me and a couple a half-block away who were simulating sex without removing their clothes—or at least, that’s what it looked like.
A packed car drove by blasting Pitbull’s “Don’t Stop the Party.” Somewhere nearby a siren wailed.
I took another drink of soda. At one point, I’d gone back inside to use the bathroom and change into a clean tank top and jeans shorts. I’d also tucked my hair up into a knit hat—even though it was too damn hot for a knit hat and my head was sweating—and dimmed my dhampir-glow.
It had worked; nobody except for a couple of douchebag men had paid me any attention. And they’d backed off when I’d taken out my switchblade and started tossing it from hand to hand.
The hair on my nape lifted. Someone was watching me. I palmed the switchblade and rose to my feet, scanning the area.
In the alley next to the bodega, the shadows seemed thicker, darker. I took a fighting stance, legs apart, knees bent, and moved my thumb to the blade’s catch but didn’t press it.
“Who’s there?”
The shadows stirred, and Zaq stepped out of them and walked toward me. He stopped a foot away, gazing down at me with hooded eyes. “Hey.”
Relief flooded me. Relief and anger.
I shoved the blade back into my pocket. “Where the fuck have you been?”
“I had some things to do.”
“Yeah?” I gripped the front of his T-shirt and got in his face. “Next time,” I said between my teeth, “take me.”
He grabbed my wrist and dug his thumb into a pressure point, forcing me to release him. “You knew I’d come back.”
“No, I didn’t know. Not for sure, anyway.” I rubbed my wrist, barely noticing the pain. “You snuck out while I was sleeping. Why would I think you were coming back?”
Zaq grabbed my upper arms and jerked me closer, brow lowered. “Because my brothers’ lives are on the line, that’s why.”
We glared at each other. Beneath the beard-scruff, a muscle jumped in his cheek.
