Kitabı oku: «Keeper of the Moon», sayfa 4

Sailor was now breathing heavily, her face burning along with the wound in her chest. “You know what?” she said. “Maybe you think that because I’m just a waitress-slash-actress I shouldn’t be talking to you except to take your order—”

“You shouldn’t be talking at all, in a room that—”

“—and that your money means you can afford to make enemies. I can see how you might think that. And yet it would be so easy to win someone’s gratitude and loyalty, someone who might have information that could be useful to you, but I’m sure you have your reasons for being an arrogant b—” She stopped, aghast. Had she just almost called him an arrogant bastard?

He swiveled his barstool until he was facing her dead on. Smiling. His trademark grin, something she’d seen but never provoked. “Go on, pet. Don’t start editing yourself now.”

“Oh, my God. My mouth. I’m sorry. Look, I’ve got—”

“A temper?” He was still smiling. “I’d say so.”

“I was going to say ‘customers.’ But yes, a temper, too.” She turned to go.

“Wait.” He reached out and caught her wrist.

She turned back and stared, electricity surging through her at the touch. His hand was strong, but his hold was gentle. She could easily have pulled free, but she didn’t. Her heart was beating fast.

With his free hand Declan made the “Check, please” gesture to Dennis, and when Dennis made the “It’s on the house” gesture back to him, Declan stood, and pulled her closer. He was taller than she by a few inches, and she was forced to look up at him.

He leaned in, and she couldn’t imagine what he was doing—for one crazy moment she thought he was going to kiss her neck—but it was only to whisper in her ear.

“What did you take just now?”

“What do you mean?” She was practically vibrating with the nearness of him.

“The pill.”

“Oh.” She shook her head. “Just—it’s called síúlacht. It’s nothing, it’s—”

“I know what it is. Bloody hell.” He let go of her, and stepped back, turning to shield his thoughts from her. “All right. Come to the Snake Pit after your shift. This—” he gestured at the bar “—is no place to discuss business.”

She gulped. Shit. She’d talked about Keepers, shifters, Elven in a room constructed for eavesdropping. It had been a huge lapse in judgment.

He put a twenty on the bar for Dennis. “And do me a favor?” he added. “No more pills tonight. Not even vitamins.”

“Okay, but—”

“You think no one’s looking?” Declan raised an eyebrow. “Look around you. Mirrors and magic. Everything you do, love, someone can see.”

Declan watched her walk away, surprised at his own flare of temper, which had made him more sharp-spoken than he’d intended. But her talking openly about Keeper matters in a place like this and on top of that downing a second dose of síúlacht … What bad luck. The síúlacht would mask the effects of the Scarlet Pathogen all over again. That set them back two or three hours, hours that could have been spent tracking a killer by other means. Maddening. What a waste of time.

But it was more than that. If he were to be honest with himself—and he worked hard to be honest with himself, to not turn into the arrogant bastard she thought he was—he had to admit that the one he was mad at wasn’t Sailor but himself. Because she stirred up something in him—she had just enough Elven in her to be his type, with her overt sensuality, her long golden limbs and red-gold hair—and the last thing he needed now was a romantic entanglement. Sailor’s path had crossed his because of this crisis, and it was the crisis that mattered. Finding the killer. Not her.

Alessande’s warning came to mind. The Elven passion for portents and premonitions irritated him because he didn’t like being told what not to do, even by supernatural sources. This time the warnings were unnecessary, redundant, telling him what he already knew: Keep this strictly business.

And it was hardly her fault that she’d messed up his evening’s agenda, because she had no idea she was part of it. Taking síúlacht wasn’t a bad call on her part; it was a perfectly reasonable response to her condition, taking more of what Alessande had given her hours earlier. Not everyone’s an addict, mate, he told himself. And even if she were, it wasn’t his business.

How had she lasted this long, though? He and Alessande had underestimated her stamina. But she would show up at his club, he had no doubt. She wanted something from him.

Would she be safe, though, driving the streets of Hollywood after midnight? Safe from what had attacked her this afternoon? Whether her assailant was a vampire or a shifter, neither was likely to enter her car while she was driving. And once she reached the Snake Pit she would be on his turf, and anyone trying to mess with her there did so at their peril. Let them try, he thought, and instinctively flexed his muscles.

Damn. He was going to have to watch himself. Feeling this protective toward her was a bad sign.

He signaled Dennis, who came over, wiping a shot glass with a bar towel. “Do me a favor?” Declan asked, pulling out a business card.

“Sure.”

Declan nodded toward Sailor, visible in the next room. “Sailor Gryffald. I don’t think she’s well. Call me at this number, would you, if she shows any signs of weakness? Maybe see her to her car?”

“I’ll do better than that,” Dennis said. “I’ll follow her, see she makes it to the door of the Snake Pit.” He smiled at Declan’s look. “Acoustics, friend. I can hear everything at this bar.”

Sailor watched Declan leave with mixed feelings. On the one hand, she’d been both unprofessional and immature, and she desperately wished she could rewind the conversation. On the other hand, no matter how gracelessly, she’d achieved her goal: he had agreed to talk to her about the murders, and Declan Wainwright was a major resource. The challenge now would be to extract from him everything he knew, not just the stuff he would tell anyone. And to get him to share his connections, which were vast.

Okay, the real challenge would be to retain some self-possession in his presence and not act like a kid with a crush.

Fortunately Sailor loved a challenge.

The only thing she couldn’t figure out was why Declan Wainwright cared that she’d ingested some homeopathic twigs and leaves.

And how she was going to survive hanging in the city’s hottest after-hours club dressed in her waitress uniform.

Chapter 4

Declan’s assistant, Harriet, had set up a business meeting for midnight, texting him Reggie Maxx’s confirmation before calling it a day, leaving her boss to his nighttime assistant, Carolyn. Declan stood now in a corner of the Snake Pit’s main room, surveying his club in full swing. The place ran well in his absence, a fact he knew because he was in the habit of shifting and showing up to observe operations. It took him a full minute to spot Reggie, because he was looking for a man on his own and Reggie had brought a date. They were on the dance floor, the date a well-built blonde with a short skirt and a serious shimmy, Reggie a tall, sandy-haired man towering over his fellow dancers.

“Hey, Declan,” Reggie said, coming over to shake hands. He was breathing heavily, flushed from the exercise. The Elven Keeper was in his early thirties, just shy of handsome, but with a freckle-faced charm and impressive physique. “Hope you don’t mind—this is my associate, Kandy. We wanted to, uh, see the band.”

“Not at all. Thanks for agreeing to meet on such short notice,” Declan said.

Kandy shook his hand with enthusiasm. “Are you kidding? I told Reggie he had to. You’re like a celebrity, you don’t need notice. And I’m Kandy with a k, so I’m easy to remember.” She wore six-inch stilettos studded with metal, which also made her easy to remember, Declan thought. “I made Reggie bring me along, because I’ve never been to the Snake Pit and I’ve lived in L.A. like three whole years.”

“Then I won’t interrupt your night for long.”

Kandy giggled. “This is our night. I love your accent, by the way. You’re Australian or one of those, right?”

“English and Irish, love,” Declan said.

“Ooh, Black Irish. That’s where you get that smoky look and those baby blue eyes, right?”

Reggie turned to her. “Kandy, Declan and I need to talk business, so why don’t you take a little tour of the place? Just don’t get in trouble.”

Declan hailed his bartender and told him to keep Kandy supplied with whatever she wanted, then led Reggie toward a staircase leading to the underground level.

Reggie gave a sheepish laugh. “She’s … a great assistant, actually. Paralegal. Draws up real estate contracts like you wouldn’t believe. Anyhow, she wanted to come and she’s … persuasive.”

Declan could well believe it. As an Elven Keeper, Reggie would have a strong measure of his species’ sexual appetite, and their magnetism. There were mortals who found the Elven irresistible without, of course, knowing what they were dealing with, and Kandy was their prototype. “No surprise,” Declan said. “She’s pretty, you’re a guy, it’s a full moon.”

“Yeah, true.” Reggie said. “Anyhow, I’m very curious as to what you wanted to see me about.”

Declan led Reggie into his office, a futuristic-looking space in gunmetal gray. He closed the door. “I need information.”

“Name it.”

“The Scarlet Pathogen deaths. Anything you can tell me about them?”

Reggie looked around, as though someone might be hiding under the concrete desk. “Why are you asking me?”

Declan gestured toward a leather sofa, inviting Reggie to sit. “You’re one of the few Elven Keepers it’s not a chore to have drinks with. What are you drinking, by the way?”

“Scotch, straight. Thanks. But what I meant was—I’m not a cop.”

Declan moved to a bar across the room. “No, but you’re the Coastal Keeper, and Charlotte Messenger’s body was found on the beach. Your jurisdiction.”

Reggie grimaced. “Well, there’s that.”

“And you know the cops are involved, that this is more than a health department matter, a communicable disease.” Declan handed him a glass of scotch and sat on a leather chair opposite the sofa.

Reggie took the highball glass. “Yeah, that’s true.” He took a sip of scotch, avoiding eye contact. He didn’t want his thoughts read.

Typical, Declan thought.

He hadn’t encountered the Elven or their Keepers until his late teens, when he’d headed west from New York City. The dry heat made Southern California a favorite Elven habitat, and their incandescent looks made them naturals in the film industry. Outwardly social, they thrived on the admiration of lesser mortals, not to mention casual sex, but Declan knew that at heart the Elven were as clannish as Gypsies, distrusting outsiders. Reggie was now exhibiting that Elven reticence. “I don’t expect something for nothing,” Declan said. “Excuse my directness, but we’re both businessmen. I’d like you to handle a real estate transaction I’m planning.”

Reggie blinked. “Don’t you have a Realtor?”

“For my Hollywood properties. This involves Malibu. I want to buy Dark Lagoon.”

“Dark Lagoon’s not for sale.”

“That’s about to change,” Declan said.

“Interesting.” Reggie sat forward, all ears now. “But why Dark Lagoon? It’s not even attractive. Have you walked around there?”

“Frequently. I’m obsessed with wetlands. The lagoon is a stopover for migrating birds along the Pacific Flyway.”

Reggie laughed shortly. “Sorry, not into birds. Too … flighty.”

Declan smiled. “Ever seen a golden eagle drag a goat off a cliff?”

Reggie eyed him speculatively. “You can’t do anything with the place, you know.”

“That’s the point. I want to save it from being developed. Save the coastal commission from having to spend their own money to buy it and protect it. I’ll pay a fair price, even a generous one, then donate it to them.”

“Happy to help, then,” Reggie said. “I’ll take a look at the property tomorrow. There’s a house just south of there that I rent out to film companies, and I’m meeting a location scout at noon.”

“That can’t be pleasant for you, hanging out on the beach.” Even Elven Keepers, Declan knew, disliked water. It wasn’t necessarily the full-blown phobia it was for the Elven themselves, but for some, it came close.

“In this economy, I’ll put up with some unpleasantness.” Reggie took a long sip of his drink, then said, “So what do you want to know about the celebrity deaths?”

“The night Charlotte’s body was found. Because it was your district, I assume someone notified you?”

“You’d think.” Reggie put down his glass and lowered his voice. “Elven Keepers operate a little differently. You shifters have some autonomy. We go through a chain of command, an executive committee.”

“With Charles Highsmith leading that committee?”

Reggie glanced at Declan. “Off the record, right?”

“Completely.”

“Yeah, Highsmith controls things. I mean, theoretically we could overturn his decisions, but it’s like herding cats to get a consensus on anything, especially if Highsmith’s against it. Anyhow, it was Highsmith who got the call from the sheriff’s department when they found Charlotte.”

“Who’s the contact in the sheriff’s department?”

“Guy named Riley. Werewolf.”

“But no one contacted you? Malibu’s your district.”

“Highsmith called me the next day to tell me it was under control,” Reggie said. “Meaning the flow of information was contained, the right cops were assigned to the case, the right medical examiner doing the autopsy.”

“But Elven women keep dying,” Declan said. “Doesn’t Highsmith consider that worth controlling?”

“As a matter of fact,” Reggie said, “he’s called a closed meeting for tomorrow. I got an encoded email ten minutes ago, telling me and the other Elven Keepers to stand by. Time and place to be announced.”

“Now what prompted that, I wonder?”

Reggie shrugged. “You understand, what gets said in closed meetings I can’t share with you, Declan, much as I’d like to. Closed meetings are a big deal. We haven’t had one since winter solstice.”

Over five months ago. “Was Rafe Gryffald at that one?”

Reggie nodded. “I think Rafe Gryffald was the only thing holding Highsmith in check the last ten years.”

Declan paused, then said, “Met his daughter yet? Sailor?”

“No. I’ve seen her around, but we haven’t met. Why?”

“She may be there tomorrow, but she’ll be in over her head and could use a friend.”

“Happy to help. Can I ask what’s your interest in this?”

“I have friends among the Elven,” Declan said. “Also, the other species are about to get involved, so we’ll need interspecies cooperation, which has to start with the Keepers.”

“I’m all for that. But to be honest, you should be talking to Highsmith, not wasting your time on the second string, which would be me.” Reggie gave Declan a wry smile. “Not that I’m not flattered. All I can tell you—and it’s not much—is that the cops are convinced these deaths are homicides, and they’ll be making that announcement anytime now.”

Declan nodded. The moment they’d found Charlotte on the beach, he’d known in his gut that her death was a murder. But now, it seemed, the whole world knew it, and that hardened his resolve.

Reggie was watching him closely, reading his thoughts to some degree. “And you have a personal stake in this, don’t you?” he asked. “Didn’t you used to date Charlotte Messenger?”

“Yes.”

“Bad luck, her being found so close to your house.”

“Bad luck her being dead at all,” Declan said. “But worse luck for her killer.”

“Why is that?”

Declan smiled grimly. “Because I am going to send him to hell.”

The bouncer must have been given her name, Sailor thought, because he waved her through with no questions. Elven, she thought, and gave him wide berth, then entered the darkly atmospheric club.

She’d been a regular at the Snake Pit since turning legal. Back then it had been the heady thrill of drinking alongside celebrities. But some months ago she’d been part of a movie deal made right there at an A-list table, a role she’d been euphoric about playing—until the deal fell apart. The whole incident had left a bad taste in her mouth, and since then she’d avoided the chaotic main room, sticking instead to the quieter venue next door where Rhiannon could often be found singing and playing her beloved Fender. In the main room the music—and crowd—was rougher-edged.

Sailor made her way toward the stage through throngs of people, some dressed to the nines, some with the grunginess of migrant farmworkers. She took care to steer clear of any Elven. She was still in her waitress uniform, black polyester velvet, but theatrical, and with enough spandex to cling to her like an ace bandage. She’d traded her comfortable shoes for a pair of heels she kept in the trunk of her car, but she still longed for a shower and some real clothes. Her arms were bare and the concrete room cold, with a blue mist coming up from the floor, but she welcomed the sensation. She suspected she was running a fever.

Unless it was the thought of seeing Declan at any moment that was raising her temperature.

The band was tuning up, an unwashed quartet wearing chain mail, but Declan wasn’t anywhere nearby, so she climbed a spiral steel staircase to a cavernous green room furnished with cubist sofas, where one couple openly snorted cocaine and a trio of uncertain gender engaged in some act of sex. No Declan there, either.

But she noticed something. Her vision was sharper than usual, colors more vibrant and people more attractive. It had happened at work, too, now that she thought about it. Not all night, not consistently, but in waves. Similar to what she’d experienced when she’d awakened in Alessande’s house. Once she’d taken the síúlacht she couldn’t recall it happening anymore. Until now. So maybe it was a symptom that the síúlacht suppressed, and maybe now the síúlacht was wearing off.

She descended to the basement, a different scene altogether, with its own bar and two poker games in progress. She asked a cocktail waitress where she might find Declan Wainwright, and the woman nodded toward a corner.

Sailor saw the back of his head, his black tousled hair, and then her heart did a fluttery thing and her bravado started to slip. Not good. She needed confidence if she hoped to be taken seriously. Unless she could get her game on, this wouldn’t work.

A restroom was to her right, and Sailor slipped in. It was stark and dark, illuminated by floating votive candles, on the assumption that no one wanted to see herself clearly at this hour of the night. Sailor leaned in to stare at her flickering reflection, giving herself the equivalent of a half-time locker-room talk. “I know that in Hollywood terms Declan Wainwright is a rock star and you’re at the bottom of the food chain. But in Otherworld terms, you’re both Keepers. And that’s why—”

Three women entered the bathroom, two heading for the stalls, one stationing herself at the adjoining sink. Sailor glanced at her: nightclub-chic, exotic clothes. Great. Here she was in her cheap uniform with her crazy eyes, talking to herself.

“Be careful, sister,” the woman said.

Sailor looked at her, startled. The woman was applying lipstick, her face close to the mirror. She paused, pressed her lips together to blot them, then said, “The one who can fly through the air, he is not to be trusted. Nor can you trust your own kind.”

“Excuse me?” Sailor said.

The woman shrugged, still looking at herself in the mirror. “I’m a messenger. I hear words, I repeat them. Does the message mean something to you?”

An image of the winged creature flashed through Sailor’s mind. “Yes, I think so. But who are you?”

“I just said. A channeler, okay? I hear messages. Usually from the dead. Not always. Runs in the family. Kind of a drag. Anyhow …” With a last look at herself, she turned to go.

“Wait,” Sailor said. “Can you tell me more?”

The woman sighed, then looked up and to the left, as if listening. “‘Location, location, location,’“ she said. “Mean anything to you?”

“No. Anything else?” Sailor asked.

“No, that’s pretty much it.”

“You can’t elaborate on this message?”

“Nope.”

“Well, can you tell me who’s sending it?”

The woman looked up and to the left again. “Okay, this is kinda weird, but did you ever see the movie Ginger Girl? That’s who she looks like. Ginger Girl.”

“Gina Santoro.”

“That’s the actress? Yeah, okay. Her. But is she even dead?”

“Yes,” Sailor said, “she’s dead.”

The messenger left the ladies’ room, and Sailor turned back to the mirror. Gina Santoro, a star so out of her league they would never have socialized in life, had taken the trouble to seek her out in death. To hell with Declan Wainwright and his club and his wealth and his status, Sailor told herself. I’ve got a job to do, and he’s going to help me.

She straightened her collar, made sure her bandage was in place and went out to face him.

Declan was on his laptop but looked up at her approach.

“Is this a good time?” she asked.

He held up an index finger and continued to focus on his computer screen, watching what looked to Sailor like the sizzle reel of a very young jazz band. The song ended, and he shut the computer with a snap. He turned to face Sailor, flipping his chair around so that he was straddling it.

“So you made it. Good,” he said, and gave her his full attention. “What have you got?” he said with a beckoning motion.

She studied him. He was friendlier than he’d been two hours earlier. Not so scary. Okay, he was a little scary. Mostly because he had the most astonishing face. High cheekbones. Piercing eyes. Blue. Cool blue in a hot face. Good grief, he was handsome. “What have you got?” she asked.

“Information on Gina Santoro and Charlotte Messenger. That’s why you’re here, right?”

“Yes,” she said, giving herself a mental shake. “But how exclusive is your information? Because mine is quite exclusive, and I’m not trading it for something I can see on Entertainment Tonight.”

“I can do better than that. But let’s start with you.”

“Why?”

“Because you approached me.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She felt as if she were burning up. “By the way, is it hot in here? Do you have the heat on?”

He was looking at her intently. Barrie’s annoying contact lenses made his blue eyes loom large. Very nice eyes they were, too. “The heat?” he asked. “It’s summer, and this is a nightclub. Hot, sweaty bodies and so forth. So, no. Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes, never mind. Here’s the story. I was attacked.” She told him, in a few words, what had happened. Surprisingly, he expressed no surprise. And maybe she was getting better at telling the story, because he asked no questions except “Who else have you told?”

“Charles Highsmith.”

That did surprise him. His eyebrows shot up. “In person?”

“No, I texted him,” she said, deadpan. No good Keeper communicated Other business by phone, and certainly not by email or text.

“Cheeky.” Declan smiled. “So you’ve been busy. And how did Charles Highsmith respond?”

“He told me to go home, get some sleep and keep my mouth shut.”

“I see you follow orders well,” he said drily.

“Yes, it’s a talent of mine. So now Highsmith’s called a Council meeting for tomorrow. A closed one, not the usual social gathering they invite everyone and their dog to. So he’s taking this seriously. Okay, that’s quite a bit that I’ve told you. So, your turn. What do the cops know?”

“You’ve got a cop in the family,” he said. “Brodie McKay. Why don’t you ask him?”

“Because for one thing, Brodie’s not the kind to blab about police business. Possibly my cousin Rhiannon could get it out of him, because she’s sleeping with him, but I’m not. For another thing, he’s Elven, so it would take him about four minutes in my company to psychically download everything that’s in my head and in return give me only what he thinks I should know. Not that he’s not a great guy,” she added. “But he thinks of me as a little sister.”

I won’t have that problem, he was thinking. She read the thought in his eyes and nearly gasped. What did he mean by that?

Aloud, he said, “You’ve told no one else?”

She flashed on her cousins but decided to dodge the question. “Secrets carry energy. Stories told too often lose their energy. You can tell a shopworn one when you hear it, can’t you?”

“I can.”

“So,” she repeated, “your turn. What do the cops know?”

“DNA tests showed that Gina Santoro and Charlotte Messenger shared a sexual partner.”

“Wow. Who’s your informant?” she asked.

“A shifter at LAPD,” Declan said.

“Name?”

He smiled. “Let’s leave that out for now.”

So he would share news but not a news source, Sailor thought. Interesting. “What about the other two victims?”

“They’re testing them,” he said, “but the results haven’t come back.”

“Okay, so this guy Gina and Charlotte hooked up with—it was a guy?”

“Yes.”

“Was the sex consensual?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “The crime scenes were apparently messy, but whether it was rape or highly energetic foreplay, they’re not saying.”

Energetic foreplay? Did he have to be talking like this? With his accent? Coming out of his mouth, the word foreplay actually constituted foreplay. “Crime scenes?” she asked. “That implies homicide. The deaths haven’t yet been ruled homicides.”

“True.”

“But they will be shortly.”

“Right again.”

“Oh. You know that already.” She was a bit disappointed that she hadn’t reached a conclusion ahead of him. “Anything else they can tell from the DNA besides gender?” Sailor asked. “Race?”

He nodded. “Caucasian. And something else—the man was Other.”

Just like my own assailant, she thought. “Really? DNA shows that?”

“Not at your average crime lab. Obviously. But Antony Brandt sent a sample to a lab in Denver, run by a vampire. The vamps love genetic studies.”

“So what kind of Other was he?” she asked.

“That could take weeks to determine. Right now they can’t even say if he’s species or Keeper.”

“What do you mean ‘Keeper’?” Sailor asked. “Being a Keeper shows up in DNA?”

“Yes.”

“Wait. You’re saying my blood—and yours, for that matter—is different from normal humans?”

Declan raised an eyebrow. “Does that surprise you?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Why? You and I have abilities the average human would consider magical. It’s a fraction of what our species can do, but even so—”

“Are you kidding?” Sailor felt her voice rising and brought it back down. “Charlotte, Gina, Brodie, any Elven you can name could be in Nome, Alaska, in four seconds. Without breaking a sweat. I’ve trained like an athlete my whole life and I can teleport only a mile or two. If I don’t work on it every day, I can’t get across the street. You can’t even compare the two.”

“Calm down, love,” he said. “Why is this so upsetting to you?”

That shut her up. He’d called her love. For the second time that night. It was just a figure of speech to him, some Brit thing, but for a moment she couldn’t find her voice. She looked away from him to see if the visual thing was still happening, where everything and everyone looked intense and attractive. But the rest of the room looked normal.

Which meant her reaction to him had nothing to do with the Scarlet Pathogen.

“It’s true that you and I have to work at our abilities,” he said, his face softening. “But a human could work her whole life and still not teleport off a barstool. It’s not in her. But it’s in you, Sailor. In your blood. Why does that bother you?”

“I don’t know exactly. It’s the whole Keeper thing. I’m used to thinking of it as this little idiosyncrasy, like having perfect pitch or a photographic memory or some kind of athletic ability. Not something that defines me.”

He was looking at her with great interest, she realized. Even … kindness. “Take out those contact lenses,” he said.

“Why?”

“I want to see your eyes.”

Sailor felt another wave of heat go through her. She felt suddenly shy, reluctant to let him see the alarming color of her irises or what they might reveal. Without the contact lenses, she would be strangely vulnerable. And at close range, under this kind of scrutiny, could she mask her thoughts?

“Afraid?” he asked.

The magic word. “No,” she said, “I’m not.” She took out one lens but wasn’t sure where to put it. Declan moved to the bar, going behind it to fill a shot glass with water. She followed him, staying on the customer side. “Drop it in,” he said, then gave her a second glass for the other one. “Sorry I haven’t got any saline solution for you.” The bartender looked their way but left them alone. Declan leaned across the bar, getting into Sailor’s space, into her face. She held her ground, feeling reckless. Feeling excited at being this close to him. Eight inches closer and they could kiss.

Could he tell how much she would like that?

His hand came up, and he touched her cheekbone gently. She nearly jumped at the heat of his fingertips. “Your eyes,” he said. “The color isn’t scarlet, it’s paler than that. And it’s not constant, it fades and intensifies.”

“I feel it,” she whispered. “It’s going on inside me, as well. I can feel what you’re describing.”

“I want you to see my doctor tonight. She’s a shifter, and I trust her. I need to know what’s traveling through your bloodstream. I need to understand this pathogen.”

And just like that, the spell was broken. The thought of being examined by a physician, with Declan Wainwright watching, was not appealing in the least. Talk about vulnerable. Paper gown, harsh overhead lights, unflattering angles. Not at all erotic.

“Yeah, let’s hold off on that one,” she said, blinking and straightening away from him. “I’ve got things to do. I’ll be happy to see your doctor tomorrow, though.”