And an all-powerful angel who could spirit her away to the Other Side in the blink of an eye if she were ever threatened.
He still wasn’t sure why she didn’t live with Sahvage and Mae. He’d heard that they’d asked her to move in, but she’d maintained the new couple needed their privacy.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know anybody was in here—”
Lassiter wrenched around and threw out an energy buffer before he got a visual on the uniformed nurse who’d entered the room. As the female was frozen where she stood and then levitated about a foot off the ground, her eyes went wide and so did her mouth.
“Shit,” he said under his breath as he quickly lowered her back to her feet and released the hold.
She stumbled to the side and caught herself on the wall. “Oh… dear.”
“Sorry about that.”
“I, ah…” Her blond hair was pinned up under her cap and she patted at it. “I did not know this was a restricted patient. I am just here to make sure she doesn’t need anything.”
The words were mumbled, and he was fairly certain she had no clue what she was saying.
“Worry not.” He smiled at her. “And is she okay?”
“Ah, she fainted. Back in the room of…” The nurse stopped herself. “I’m sorry, who are you to her?”
Lassiter lifted his hand and calmed the female’s mind. Then he sent her back out of the room—although not before he searched her memories and reassured himself that, yup, as far as the medical staff were concerned, Rahvyn had nothing physically wrong with her.
They all just thought she’d fainted at the bedside of the young male who had made an absolutely miraculous recovery.
None of the rank and file staff had any idea what she had done.
Just as well.
The fewer who knew, the better.
Lassiter reached out a hand—but retracted his arm. It didn’t seem right to touch her without her knowledge. And also, he was in awe of her.
He should go.
Over on the wall, there was a plain clock, with a white face and black numbers. The little and the big hands were black, the second hand was thin as a line and red as blood as it raced around. He watched the measure of time do its work and told himself he really did need to take off.
But God, it was going to be hard to leave her. Now… or at any time.
* * *
In the kitchen at Erika’s townhouse, Balz came in from the garage. He’d gone through all the rooms and found nothing, but a pervasive sense of unease made him wonder whether they should stay at her place or try to find something that was a better defensible position. Then again, the threat he was most worried about was metaphysical, so like any zip code, set of walls, or even fucking bunker was going to make a difference?
The good news was he wasn’t tired. At. All.
“There’s nothing here,” she said softly.
“Not that I can tell,” he said as he glanced at her.
She’d pulled on a pair of jeans and shoved her feet into some boots. Her hair was tied back as well. Meanwhile, he was still in a towel and barefoot—but he could dematerialize out if he had to. Not that he would leave her.
“You have the keys to the Honda,” he said, even though he already knew the answer.
“Yes.”
He had a brief idea that he could bunk her in at the Black Dagger Brotherhood mansion. He wasn’t using his bedroom, for fuck’s sake. But how would that work? They drive there and he’d just throw her out the car door and tell her to ask for Fritz to take her upstairs to his crib?
Besides, he had no idea what he was picking up on. He felt as though there were a thousand of some enemy outside the townhouse, but—
The subtle noise was so soft, it was almost impossible to hear over the aggression roaring in his ears, in his blood, in his body. When it repeated, though, it gave him something to track, and he turned around and looked through into the living room. He had to wait an interval before it recurred, and this time, he went over to where Erika’s purse was.
“I think it’s your phone,” he said gruffly. “On vibrate.”
Erika hustled past him and glanced around before putting her weapon down on the coffee table. “I don’t have mine on silent, though.”
Opening the bag, she went in with her hands, taking out a practical brown wallet, a packet of Kleenex, a roll of Certs. A notepad. Couple of pens. Receipts. Lipstick. And was that—
“Is that a parking ticket?” he asked.
“I had no choice. I had to get some coffee.”
“Isn’t there a professional courtesy thing?”
“No, and there shouldn’t be. If you park wrong, you should get ticketed.”