All momentum stopped with a furious impact, the Civic’s front grille striking something that had no give in it.
As the airbag deflated with a hiss, Mae drooped forward, her consciousness fuzzing out . . . and then returning in a fog. In her car’s headlights, through some kind of steam rising out of the busted hood, she read a sign mounted on a brick wall: Poplar Woods.
She’d run into the marker for the development next to her own.
Fumbling with her seat belt, she released the latch on her door and popped things open. On a loose list to the side, her body fell out, her arms and legs not listening to the commands she gave them, and with all the grace of dead weight, she spilled onto the ground, dirt going into her mouth, her nose. She flopped onto her back and took some deep breaths.
A frantic face entered her field of vision. It was a human man with rimless glasses, a receding hairline, and a cell phone up to his ear.
“I couldn’t stop in time!” he said. “You threw your brakes on so quick—I’m calling nine-one-one—”
“No, no—don’t call—” Mae put her hand up, like she could somehow take that phone from him. “No, no—”
“Hi? Yes, my name is Richard Karouk. I need to report a—”
With an abrupt gasp, Richard Karouk stopped talking, his eyes flaring wider behind those glasses. Then there was a clicking sound, and his mouth dropped open.
Blood flooded out onto his business shirt and his nice jacket, a bright red flush.
As he slumped to the ground in a heap, a figure in a bustier and a set of skintight black leather pants was revealed. The brunette.
And she had a long steel knife in her hand that was stained red . . . red as her lips, her nails.
“Hi, honey.” She smiled. “Looks like you hit your noggin and totaled your car. Thank God I’m here when you need a friend.”
• • •
Sahvage did not go back to the shitty place he was crashing at. Instead he re-formed on the top of a rise in a public park, and as he stared across at a wide, sluggish river, he decided the lights of the houses at the opposite shore were like a galaxy fallen to ground. Twinkling, distant . . . untouchable.
Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?
No.
That exchange with Mae replayed in his head a couple of hundred times, and of course, the repeat thing did not change her reply—even though he had some delusion that maybe the discourse would improve over time, the needle in the proverbial LP record finding a different groove, a better one.
With a curse, he took out his phone. And as he made a call, he knew that he was setting himself to as immutable a course as Mae was on. Then again, her intentions drove his. And it was what it was.
After a terse conversation, he ended the connection and put his phone away.
He was still standing where he’d planted his boots when a male materialized in front of him.
The Reverend was who he had been at the fight, an imposing figure in a full-length fur, his cropped Mohawk and amethyst eyes not the kind of thing you saw every night. Given the elegant bulk of that mink, it was not immediately apparent whether there were weapons under the duster, but a strange sense told Sahvage that the conventional stuff you could buy at your local click-click, bang-bang shop wasn’t going to be necessary for the guy’s protection.
There was something off about him.
And the fact that he was involved with the Book seemed right.
“Fancy hearing from you,” the Reverend drawled. Then he frowned. “This isn’t about the fight money, is it.”
“No.”
“How’s your female?”
“She’s not mine.” Sahvage ignored the chuckle. “But I need to find that Book she’s looking for.”
“Valentine’s Day isn’t for another ten months, and as romantic intentions go, you might have just as good a result with chocolates, only without the fucking hassle—”
“Where can I find it. And don’t tell me you didn’t lie to her. You know a helluva lot more than you’re saying.”
Abruptly, the jokey-jokey shit left the chat.
“I am under no obligation to humor your drama.” The Reverend smiled coldly, flashing long fangs. “And you’re not trying to get it for her, are you. No, no, you’ve got other plans for the Book.”
“Of course it’s for her.”
A dark eyebrow lifted. “You’re either lying to me or lying to yourself.”
On his side of the conversation, Sahvage was busy blocking every thought he had—and it was clearly not working. Which he took to mean he was definitely talking to the right male.
With a shrug, he said, “I’m just helping for a friend.”
“Yeah, ’cuz you’re the kind of male who does shit like that.” The Reverend put his hand in his pocket. Then grew still. “You’re not going to tell me to keep my palms in full view?”