And it was a purely fortunate accident that my ass looked fantastic in spandex.
I dropped my jeans and slid on a pair of silky black leggings. They fit like a second skin and were supposed to be tear-resistant, water-resistant, and somewhat flame-resistant—if someone threw a lit match at me, not if I were to become engulfed in flames. They were satiny and insanely comfortable. A small pocket was sewn into the waistband just big enough to hold my ID, which was handy since regular pockets don’t work well on skintight.
I matched them with a long-sleeved spandex top of the same material. It had tightly woven mesh under the arms, to make it breathable, and extra padding running halfway down the sleeves. There were also two loops sewn onto each arm, right below my shoulders, to hold weapons of my choosing.
I wasn’t carrying any throwing weapons tonight, however.
Incubi weren’t known for their fighting skills. I wasn’t going to need much more than my fists, especially since they were packing extra heat these days.
I finished the ensemble by pulling on a tight black knit cap and I knotted my hair at the base of my neck. My hair was a problem, and by all rights I should’ve chopped it off a long time ago. It had gotten me into trouble in the past, and being incapacitated by hair-pulling could prove a fatal mistake. But vanity was a bitch and I liked my hair long.
I laced up a pair of custom-made black cross-trainers, which boasted extremely thick treads and a line of thinly molded steel running protectively around the toes. They also sported tiny Velcro pouches sewn discreetly on the sides. Very handy for sneaking in a wire undetected.
You could custom order just about anything if you had the money. An extra thousand and I could’ve had my outfit spelled. Though, depending on who you were up against, the spelling didn’t come with a guarantee. A higher demon or sorcerer could smash right through most things if they had enough strength. Plus, the last time I had a thousand dollars to spare was, um, never. My dad had offered to supplement me on many occasions over the years, but I’d never accepted. It’d taken a lot for me to finally earn my independence off Compound, and I took it very seriously.
I hadn’t heard any different from Nick, so I assumed we were on schedule. I grabbed my cell phone, pushed my ID into the front of my pants, and headed out.
In the lot, I opened my car door and slid inside. I leaned over and pulled open the glove box first to check my handgun. My licensed-to-carry, palm-sized 9mm Glock 26 looked brand-new. I’d hardly ever needed it. I did a cursory check of the sight line and the magazine. It shot jacketed silver hollow-point bullets, with added silver shavings at the tip. The bullet was meant to explode on impact and send silver streaming into the blood of whoever was pissing me off at that very moment. It was deadly, because silver worked on most supernaturals. Not all myths were true—which I knew firsthand—but silver was spot-on. Silver, in its purest form, had the highest electrical and thermal conductivity of any metal and reacted like fire to whatever magic fueled the blood of a supernatural. Only the oldest vampires and shifters could fully recover from silver poisoning without massive intervention.
I could hit a running target dead-on, but a gun would never be my weapon of choice. It was too clumsy. But it was nice to know I had a little something-something in reserve when the going got tough. I put it back, closed it up and headed out.
Nick lived only a few minutes from me. He was waiting at the curb. His outfit was black, but was lacking in the shine department. His loss. He opened the passenger door and climbed in. “Feel good to be back?” he asked. “Or do you wish you’d kept right on running Saturday morning?” He held a bag of goodies that smelled suspiciously like the pecan cinnamon rolls from my favorite bakery around the corner from his place.
“What, and leave all this behind?” I spread my arms over the wheel in mock exaggeration, then I nodded toward the bag. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yep. I figured if yesterday’s forty pit stops were any indication, you’d be hungry within the first ten minutes. When I went through my transition, if I went without food for more than an hour I was in danger of gnawing on my own leg. Plus, I knew if I fed you these sticky, sweet things at regular intervals, I could keep you relatively happy and focused on the task.”
“Good thinking, ace,” I said. “Now open that bag and toss me one.”
The movie theater Drake had chosen to haunt was located just outside the city limits. It was one of those mega–theater complexes, situated at the edge of a long flowing suburb that used to be nothing but farmland. It boasted eighteen screens and three full snack bars.