Now she was fine with him just walking out the door?
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked again.
"Look, it's cool, okay? I knew when I agreed to this that you wouldn't be hanging around afterward. I'm not stupid, you know. I'm a big girl. You're a really big guy and I'm sure you have a life to get back to." Panic drifted through her eyes. "Oh God, you're not married, are you?"
"No, I'm not married."
She let out a relieved breath. "Then, no harm, no foul."
She crossed the short distance to her fridge to return the juice jug.
"Sunshine?"
She paused to give him a peeved stare. "What, Talon? You're not having separation anxiety, are you? Today was fun and it was worth it, but I've got to get back to work. I have a ton of stuff that I need to do tonight."
"Yeah, but..." He didn't finish the sentence. He refused to.
"But?"
He clamped his jaw shut. Fine, if she wanted him gone, he was gone.
He shouldn't have spent the day with her anyway.
This close to Mardi Gras, he couldn't afford any distractions. Never mind one that came in the form of a dark-haired temptress.
"Nothing," he said.
She looked relieved. "Since you have to meet someone, you go ahead and shower and I'll make us some dinner."
Talon took her up on the shower, but when he was finished, he declined eating her tofu salad and soy steaks.
"Thanks again, Sunshine," he said as he shrugged his leather jacket on over his T-shirt. "I had a really good day."
"Me too," she said with a smile while she nibbled her salad and flipped through an art magazine.
He still couldn't believe how well she was taking his leaving her. Damn.
A part of him continued to expect her to at least beg him to call her.
Ask for his e-mail.
Something.
But she didn't.
Man, how he hated the twenty-first century.
She looked up as he headed for the door. "You take care of yourself, Talon. And in the future, please try and stay out of the way of runaway Mardi Gras floats, okay?"
Talon lifted both brows in stunned shock. "Excuse me?"
"Don't you remember last night when you got mowed down?"
Talon nodded hesitantly, unable to believe that that was what had slammed into him. "I was hit by a Mardi Gras float?"
"Yeah, it was Bacchus."
Now that was adding insult to injury. Jeez. He only hoped Nick didn't find out about it. Ever.
Nicholas Ambrosius Gautier had come into this world with not a lot of prospects. Born the bastard son of a career felon and a teenage Bourbon Street stripper, he wasn't exactly the most law-abiding of folks. In fact, his junior high guidance counselor had once voted him Most Likely to Get the Death Penalty.
But one night when Nick had made a stand against the gang he ran with, fate had changed his life and sent in a Dark-Hunter guardian angel who had taken a smart-mouthed kid, cleaned him up, and given him a real future.
Now, nine years later, he was a pre-law student, and instead of playing penal roulette like his father, he was almost a respectable citizen. Almost being the operative word.
All thanks to Kyrian of Thrace and Acheron Parthenopaeus.
There was nothing he wouldn't do for them and that was why he was sitting in his car, parked in a vacant field just after sunset, instead of being off with his latest girlfriend, putting a really big smile on her face.
Even with the car running, it was cold out here. That damp, frigid cold that could go deep into the bones and make them ache. His thermos of coffee all gone, Nick just wanted to get back home and thaw out.
Instead, he was waiting for Talon's Mardi Gras reinforcement to be delivered, because Zarek, having spent the last nine hundred years in Alaska, had no idea how to drive a car. Apparently, cars weren't the transportation of choice for snowbound Dark-Hunters.
Yee-freakin'-haw. This was one event he could have waited his lifetime for.
"Nick, you there?"
"Yeah," he said into the portable radio he had in the passenger seat of his Jaguar that kept him in touch with the incoming helicopter. "What's your ETA?"
"About two minutes," Mike said.
Nick started scanning the dark sky for the black H-53E Sea Dragon Sikorsky helicopter. It was a long-range, custom-built military-class chopper that the Squires often used to transport Dark-Hunters. The helicopter was fast and versatile, and could be refueled while in flight.
Its back section was equipped with a steel passenger area that kept sunlight from touching the Dark-Hunters. The windows in the passenger compartment could be lightened with a flip of the switch to allow a Dark-Hunter to see outside after dark should he desire it.
A few Dark-Hunters such as Acheron owned their own helicopters and flew them when needed.
Tonight, though, Mike Callahan, who was a Dorean Squire (meaning he didn't have a particular Dark-Hunter he served) was bringing in Zarek from Alaska.
Nick had heard a lot of rumors through the on-line Squire bulletin boards about Zarek of Moesia being psychotic. He wasn't sure how accurate that information was, but in a few minutes he'd find out firsthand.
"Hey, Mike," he said, radioing the pilot. "How bad is he?"
Mike snorted. "Let me put it to you this way. If you have a gun, unload it."
"Why?"
"Because if you don't, you're going to shoot this asshole which will only piss him off more. For once, I actually pity the Daimons."
That didn't sound encouraging.
"What? He's worse than Acheron?"
"Nick, take my word for it. You ain't never seen anything like this one. I now know why Artemis and Ash locked him in Alaska. What I can't figure out is why on earth Artemis wanted him moved into a large population. My opinion, it's like tossing a grenade on a gas station."
Oh yeah, his gut was knotted now.
Nick waited as the helicopter landed on the private airstrip Acheron used when he visited. At one end of the field stood a building that appeared to be a dilapidated barn. In actuality, it was a modified modern hangar equipped with an alarm system and doors so thick it could double as a bomb shelter. That barn currently housed the twenty-eight-million-dollar MH-60K Sikorsky helicopter that Acheron used to transport himself and his custom-built Buell motorcycle.
Ash had arrived in style the day before.
Now Zarek.
Yup, Mardi Gras was starting to look scary.
Nick got out of the car and locked his radio in the trunk, then stood to the side of the field until Mike cut the motor and the blades stopped spinning.
When everything quit moving, the lean, middle-aged Squire got out of the helicopter and removed his helmet. Mike had never been overly friendly, but tonight he looked thoroughly disgusted and extremely irritable.
"I don't envy you this," Mike said as he tossed his helmet back into his seat.
"C'mon, stop messing with me, Mike. He can't be that bad."
Nick changed his mind as soon as Mike slid open the passenger door and he caught his first look at Zarek of Moesia.
Zarek emerged from the opening like Lucifer from his deepest pit, with a chip on his shoulder so large, Nick was amazed they had managed to get the helicopter off the ground.
Dressed all in black, Zarek wore jeans, Harley biker boots, and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He seemed completely oblivious to the cold damp air that made up a New Orleans winter night. He had a long silver sword earring in his left ear, with a hilt made of a skull and crossbones.
Zarek stepped out with a sneer that was made more sinister by his black goatee. His straight black hair brushed his shoulders and his jet-black eyes were filled with contempt and hatred. Nick was used to bad attitude; hell, he'd been weaned on it. But he'd never met a man who had one worse than Zarek.
He reminded Nick of the murderers his father had brought home. Cold. Unfeeling. Lethal. Whenever Zarek looked at you, you got the feeling he was measuring you for your coffin size.