A dark-haired woman entered the deck. She was young, barely eighteen if that. Her features would’ve made her at home on the streets of Delhi: deep dark eyes, round, full face, sensuous lips, dark hair that streamed behind her. She wore plain jeans and a dark long-sleeved shirt, but the way she walked, rolling her hips slightly, shoulders held back a little to showcase her breasts, made me want to picture her in a sari. An exotic Indian princess. Men watched her move. Three to one, this was Livie, the intended recipient of Derek’s note. I had no trouble seeing how she would inspire a young male werewolf to lose all common sense.
She reached our table and halted a couple of feet away, keeping her gaze down. “Asaan,” she murmured to Mart. “Mistress wants you.”
The tattooed man bared his teeth. She had interrupted their intimidation routine.
The woman bowed her head in submission.
In a moment the Reapers would leave and my chance to pass Derek’s note would leave with them. What to do?
Across from me two women excused themselves and headed to the corner of the room, where a small sign pointed toward bathrooms.
“I need to go to the ladies’ room!” I announced a bit too loudly, got up, and stared at the dark-haired woman. “Come with me. I don’t want to go by myself.”
She looked at me as if I were speaking Chinese. You stupid idiot girl.
“I don’t want to go by myself,” I repeated. “There might be weirdoes in there.”
The tattooed man jerked his head toward the bathroom and she sighed. “Okay.”
As we departed, I heard the tattooed man’s voice. “When you die, your woman will scream.”
“Is that a threat?” Saiman chuckled.
“A promise.”
We stepped into the bathroom. The moment the heavy door closed behind us, she turned around. “There you go, all set. Unless you want me to hold your hand until you sit on the toilet, I’ve got to go.”
“Are you Livie?”
She blinked. “Yes.”
“I’m Derek’s friend,” I said.
The name hit her like a punch. She reeled back. “You know Derek?”
I pulled the note from the wrist guard. “For you.”
She snatched it from my hand and read it. Her eyes widened. She crumpled the note and dropped it into the circular hole in the marble counter.
“Are you in trouble?”
“I have to go. I’ll be punished if I stay too long.”
“Wait.” I grabbed her by the forearm. “I can help. Tell me what’s going on.”
“You can do nothing! You’re just a slut.” Livie jerked her arm out of my hand, ripping her sleeve, punched the door open, and took off.
There are times when strenuous mental conditioning comes in handy. It helps you to keep going when you’re wading through the sewers up to your thighs in human excrement hacking at an endlessly regenerating Impala worm. It also keeps you from screaming when two young idiots intend to commit suicide by Reapers and resist all attempts to be saved.
The note. She’d thrown the note away. I gave my word I wouldn’t read the note before giving it to her, but since she had read it and tossed it into the garbage, the note was now the property of the public. I was Jane Public, so technically I could read the note.
The two women I had seen enter the bathroom earlier exited the stalls, carrying on a conversation about somebody’s biceps. They walked past me and proceeded to touch up their already perfect makeup before the mirror.
I ran through my reasoning in my head. It was a bit thin, but I was past the point of caring.
I stepped up to the counter and stuck my arm into the hole. My fingers grazed clumps of wet paper towels.
The ladies stared at me as if I had sprouted a chandelier on my head.
I gave them a nice smile, withdrew my hand, and looked into the hole. A short, wide trash can full of discarded tissue. I could fish all day and not get the note. The counter was marble, but the cabinet under it was metal. A small door allowed access to the trash can. I grabbed the handle. Locked.
The ladies determined that ignoring me was the most prudent course of action and resumed their biceps-related discussion.
I looked at the lock. Lock picking wasn’t my forte. Busting things, on the other hand, was right up my alley.
I backed up to give myself a bit of room. It was good that the counter was relatively high. Hard to place a low kick with enough power. I stepped forward and hammered a side kick to the door. Metal boomed like a drum. The door buckled under my foot but held.
The women froze.
I sank a front kick into the dent. Boom.
Good door. Boom.
The door shuddered, slid down, and crashed to the floor with a thud. I smiled at the horrified ladies. “Dropped my engagement ring down there. You know how it is. A girl will do anything for a diamond.”
They fled.
I pulled the trash can out and dug through it. Paper towel, paper towel, used tampon . . . Ugh. Who put used tampons into the paper towel wastebasket? There it was.
I unrolled the crumpled note. “By the Red Roof Inn, same time, tonight.”
Pieces began to line up in my head. A breathtakingly beautiful girl, seemingly the property of a team of lethal, possibly not human, gladiators. A young male werewolf with an overdeveloped protective instinct. Derek was in love—nothing less would cause him to break Curran’s laws—and he was planning to rescue her. He was also in the fast lane to getting his balls chopped off.
Okay, so what possible time could it be and where was the Red Roof Inn? The Red Roof Inn was about the only hotel franchise actively remaining in business. Any shack’s roof could be painted red, instantly identifying it as a place to purchase a room for the night. Problem was, I hadn’t the foggiest idea where there might be a Red Roof Inn in this area of Atlanta.
The Reapers struck me as a paranoid sort, the kind who would leave and arrive together. If I were them, I would depart shortly after their last fight of the day was over. They also kept Livie on a short leash. Her absence wouldn’t go unnoticed for long. Derek was an idiot, but a bright idiot. He would realize this. He would meet her someplace close to their exit route. Best-case scenario, they would talk and she would go back. Worst-case scenario, he had some sort of getaway vehicle ready for their joint escape. Which would end in disaster.
I kicked the wastebasket back under the counter, leaned the door to cover up the hole, straightened my dress, and emerged from the bathroom.
Saiman sat alone. He raised one eyebrow at my appearance. A gesture copied from me—Saiman was annoyed. But not enough not to rise at my approach.
“Another minute and I would have had to request a rescue party from the management,” he said.
“You are the management.”
“No, I’m an owner.”
Touché. “What’s your beef with the Reapers?”
“I think you misunderstood the nature of our agreement.” He offered me his elbow. “I bartered for your evaluation of a team. You’re the one under obligation to disclose the information, and be assured I’m overcome with the desire to hear your report. I’m positively aquiver.”
“Aquiver?”
“Indeed. Shall we walk to our seats?”
I sighed and let myself be led from the deck. I was very tired of being kept out of the loop.
CHAPTER 9
WE WALKED DOWN TO THE FIRST FLOOR, TO ANOTHER luxurious hallway pierced with arches. Saiman picked one of the arches seemingly at random and held the heavy rust curtain aside. Beyond the curtain lay a small balcony. Circular and encased by a solid steel railing that came midway to my hip, the balcony offered four chairs upholstered in soft rust fabric and positioned movie-theater close.
I stepped past the curtain to the railing. A huge hall greeted me, too large to be called a room. Oblong and vast, it stretched for at least a hundred and fifty yards. Its walls were honeycombed with arched balconies arranged in three rows. Each balcony held six to eight people and offered its own exit door, which, if our particular door was any indication, opened to the wide corridor. The management was trying to minimize the chances of a stampede if things went sour.