He had called the number four times since they’d parted.
Even though she’d said they’d meet again, he had no time or place to go on. He came back here because . . . what really were his options.
Had she died during the day from internal injuries? Been killed?
Gotten fired the old-fashioned way, right into a coffin?
Heading over to the roofline, he looked down over the lip edge. The alley was empty, nothing but scattered litter, a car that was parked on the far side, and a lineup of trash bins that had been recently emptied by someone lazy or careless, their lids flopped back, their filthy maws still open. As the wind changed direction, the temperature was downright cold, the unseasonable warmth of the evening before gone, the winter flexing its muscles already.
Swinging up and over the roof ’s molding, he hit the fire escape’s top level with a clang—and he didn’t hide how much noise he made as he descended the back and forth of flights and landings. When he got to the lowest set, he didn’t put the ladder down; he just pulled a dangler, hanging on by his hands and dropping to the ground.
Breathing in the air, he sifted through the scents coming to him: Motor oil and gas from that car. Rotten food from the dumpster around the corner, the one where that shooter had been. Fire from somewhere, probably down under the bridge by the river, where the homeless crowded around barrels and used lit trash to keep warm.
He was guessing that both the Charger mess and the body of the shooter had been long removed. No doubt the human police had had a field day with the pair of crime scenes.
“Where are you, Rio,” he murmured. “I’m waiting for you.”
Like his voice had magical powers over that woman, like he could summon her to him?
Yeah, whatever, he thought. It was more like the other way around—
Down at the head of the alley, a handful of humans turned the corner and came striding toward him. Stepping back, Lucan stayed in the shadows thrown by the weak security lights. It was a pack of four men dressed for the club, all in black, their hair spiked up, their pushing and shoving not from drink or drugs but anticipation for the night ahead.
He was guessing they looked as good as they were going to. By four a.m.? All that put-together was going to be rough as fuck—
Abruptly, they stopped in front of a sunken doorway and one of them got out a phone. A moment later, a guy in a “STAFF” shirt opened the way inside and motioned all quick-quick-quick, like he was letting them in without them paying.
The door clapped shut.
Lucan crossed his arms over his chest. Glanced to the left. Glanced to the right. As his fangs tingled with aggression, he had to walk down to the corner because he couldn’t stand still. Every three or four strides, he rechecked the cell phone the Executioner allowed him to have . . . which was a waste of time.
If she’d called, it would have vibrated.
If she’d texted, it would have vibrated.
As if there were a third option? Fucking hell—
His senses came alive in warning before his nose informed him of exactly what was about to enter the alley—and his body moved on its own volition to relative safety: One moment, he was walking along against the building across from the club; the next, he was ducking down behind the parked car.
The two figures came out of the shadows at the head of the alley and stopped by the fire escape.
Vampires. He could tell by the scent—and not aristocrats or civilians. Fighters. The one on the left was blond and as wide-shouldered as a span bridge. The other one had black hair, a goatee, and an expression on his face like the world bored him to death. They were both dressed in black leather, and he knew that the bulges under their biker jackets were not only muscles.
They had plenty of gunmetal on them.
They stayed just out of the reach of the security lights, hulking shadows that, if he hadn’t scented them because he was downwind, even he might not have noticed.
Goddamn they blended into the night well.
“—nah, this is where she was last evening,” the one with the goatee muttered.
Lucan’s upper lip curled back. But what were the chances—
“She was here waiting for the contact.” The male took out what appeared to be a thin cigarette and put it between his teeth like he wanted to bite something that bled instead of lit up. “She took that human to rehab. That’s all I got, Hollywood—because of your little sneezing fit.”
As a Bic was taken out and thumbed, the brief, flaring flame highlighted both their faces. Lucan did not recognize them.
“It wasn’t a fit, V. It was one, single achoo.”
“Sneeze, cheese, whatever. If you hadn’t had your ges-gun-dheit moment, I would have gotten to her—”
The vampires went silent as another round of humans came down the alley, three this time. At the back door to the club, they stopped and texted. A moment later, the same security guard opened things and shuffled them in.
Lucan disappeared the cell phone into the pocket of his jacket. Then he welcomed some of his wolven to the forefront of his consciousness—not enough to change himself into his other form . . . but enough to sharpen his senses even further.
As he closed his eyes, he knew he had to be careful.