I re-dressed then and, holding the stilettos at the ready in case he was bluffing, walked over to the shooter. He was Caucasian, probably early twenties, with black hair, tribal tats across his cheeks, and a ring in the middle of his bottom lip. It was the ring that was the psychic shield. Obviously, someone had done a little updating since I'd last seen one.
I straddled his body, plonked down on top of him, and pressed one heel against his chest, just as a precaution. If he moved, I'd stake him, because I wasn't in the mood for a fight right now. He wouldn't die immediately, because the stiletto wasn't long enough to reach his heart from where I had it positioned. But it would give me time enough to read him. And right now, that was all that was important.
I grabbed the lip ring and roughly yanked it out. Blood spurted. He didn't flinch, meaning he was truly out of it. Not that it mattered. Now that his mind was unshielded, it was mine to play in.
Lowering my shields again, I mentally reached out, touching his thoughts, rifling his memories. He was a contract killer, and had been hired yesterday to get rid of me.
Not Mrs. Hunt. Me.
So much for Misha's damn promise that he'd keep me safe and stop the attacks.
I continued rifling through the shooter's thoughts. He didn't know who had hired him, because the hit had been arranged through an intermediary. A man who had brown eyes ringed with blue and amber, and whose face had the same sort of harsh lines as Mrs. Hunt.
Did she have a brother?
Had the kill on General Hunt been deliberate, or an accident? Were the two hits even connected?
His mind couldn't give me the answers. He only knew what he'd been contracted to do.
I glanced up as the wailing sirens came to a halt on the street below. Time to go. I raided the killer's mind again, this time making him believe he had a broken leg. Even if he woke before the cops got here, he wouldn't go anywhere. I rose, patted him down for other weapons, shoved him onto his side so he wouldn't choke to death on his own blood—though if he was a vampire, that was highly unlikely—then kicked the rifle well out of his reach.
Move, Riley. Quinn's voice was edged with concern. The cops will be up on that roof soon.
I'm aware of that. I headed for the stairs. How'd you do?
He'd disappeared by the time I got up there.
I went down the stairs even faster than I'd come up, and a whole different set of muscles woke to protest. No clues as to how?
He left some feathers and the weapon behind.
So the second shooter was a shifter—not that that gave any clue as to identity. My filler had been contracted to hit me, not Hunt.
Hunt was a deliberate shot, not an accident.
I pushed my way out of the stairwell. The guard spun and opened his mouth to speak, but I took control of his mind and made him look past me and see nothing. So, we were both targets simply because we were both at the one spot. The question is, why did they want Hunt dead?
And how did they know you were here, let alone that it was you under that disguise?
I don't know. I just don't know.
The front doors swished open. Lights flashed across the darkness, streaking it with blue and red. Men in white and blue stood around the taxi and Mrs. Hunt, while a gathering crowd looked on in horror.
Awareness prickled across my skin, then Quinn was beside me, a shadow who suddenly found substance. He wrapped his hand around my arm and guided me to the right.
Where are we going?
'You re going to the airport. I'm going to follow Mrs. Hunt.
Jack, won't be happy.
Jack is not my boss, and we need to know what the hell is going on. If Mrs. Hunt is a replacement, she'll know something. Or somebody. I intend to find out which it is.
Be careful.
In these matters, I always am.
He stopped by the car and opened the door. Then he pulled me against him, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that was wild, erotic, and a very unapologetic affirmation of what he wanted. And what he intended to do when we had more time.
I opened my eyes, stared into his. Saw the desire. Saw the determination, burning bright.
This vampire would not give up, would not go away. No matter what I did or said. He was playing for keeps. For real.
Which meant he still wasn't understanding that I was a wolf, with a wolf's needs, and that we could never be what he wanted us to be, no matter what might lay between us.
"Quinn—"
"Mrs. Hunt is leaving," he cut in harshly, making me wonder if he'd read my mind and was simply delaying the moment of truth. "We'll talk another time."
He kissed me again, no less fiercely than before, then pushed me into the car and slammed the door shut. By the time I'd twisted around to look at him, he was gone.
Chapter Ten
The Rocker was filled with teenagers half my age, all of them bopping to music that was painful to my cars. I could see why the Rocker's traditional weekend crowd had fled—the crap they were playing now was nothing like the good old-fashioned rock and roll this club had built its reputation on. But then, I guess they had to do something to attract the next generation of wolves through the door.
Misha sat on a stool at the far end of the chrome and red lacquer bar. He wore dark jeans and a black T-shirt, and both accentuated the whiteness of his lean body. As I stood there staring at him, the urge to turn and run hit me. I didn't want to do this. I really didn't.
Not because of the sex. As I'd said to Quinn more than once, sex was part of a werewolf's nature, and we didn't hold it in the same reverent regard. Even though I didn't particularly want to mate with Misha, I would, and I'd more than likely enjoy it.
No, what disgusted me was the fact that I'd been left no choice in the matter.
If I was a guardian and this was just a part of my job, it would have been okay. If I'd walked in here knowing I'd been offered this assignment and had willingly chosen to do it, I would have had no problems. But I didn't have the choice, no matter what Quinn said. Misha seemed to be the only one who knew what was going on, and to get that information and get my life on track, I had to do this. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Two very different things.
And it hit me then that part of me had already accepted the reality that one day I would become a guardian. That one day, I'd be doing this out of choice rather than need.
I closed my eyes, sickened not so much by the thought, but the tremor of excitement that ran through me. I didn't want to become a killer. Didn't want to become my brother. But the part of me that had always rejoiced in the danger of being with Talon was dancing at the thought of becoming a guardian and facing danger on a regular basis.
Maybe Jack was right. Maybe he did know me better than I knew myself.
Taking another deep breath, I pushed the thoughts aside, and made my way through the crowd.
Tapping Misha on the shoulder, I said, "I believe we had a date."
His icy gaze slid down my body. I'd changed into jeans and a black crop top, but had left Liander's other improvements in place. There was no recognition in Misha's eyes as his gaze met mine then slid away. "I believe you're mistaken."
"So you've decided you don't want kids any more?"
His head snapped around, and his gaze narrowed. "Riley?"
"The one and only." I plopped down on the stool beside his and ordered a beer.
"Why the disguise?"
"Why not? Especially when you haven't exactly proven you can keep me safe."
"Have you been attacked recently?"
I snorted softly. "Twice, actually."
"What?"
The surprise in his voice seemed genuine, but I wasn't about to be taken in by it. Misha could act the pants off just about anyone I knew. "Once with orsini, once with a paid hitman. It's pissing me oft, Misha."