Her unruly, curly black hair was swept up into a bushy ponytail, and she wore a gray NYPD shirt that was one size too large over a pair of jean shorts. Her face, as usual, looked worn and tired, but her eyes were bright and her skin was fresh. I couldn’t help but smile at her as I said, “Hi.”

“Hi?” She laughed at the statement and pulled me in for a tight hug. “I can’t believe you. Do you know how crazy people have been going about you?”

Mercedes and Keaty were the only people who knew where I’d gone. I figured it would be best to tell her outright rather than deal with the fallout if she launched a manhunt for me. I hugged her back, enjoying the sweet, fruity scent of her shampoo and the warmth coming from her small, muscular body.

“Come on,” she said as she locked the inner door and gate behind her. “We have some catching up to do.”

We found ourselves at a small bar within walking distance called Fat Sam’s. The bartender was a slim, tall man who smiled at Mercedes in a way that suggested more than passing familiarity. Her color darkened the slightest bit, but she gave no other indication of how they knew each other.

“Evening, Detective,” he said warmly.

“Owen.” She nodded and held up two fingers, then added, “And keep ’em coming.”

We slid into a booth with cracked leather seats which sank beneath our individual weights so we were at an almost comically low height with the scarred wooden table. Owen came over carrying a tray and threw down two Newcastle Ale coasters, then put a pint glass down on each one of them. Next to the pints he gave us each a shot glass brimming over with strong, old-smelling whiskey. He eyed me the way bartenders often do when they suspect someone of being underage. Cedes touched his forearm and smiled sweetly, something I’d never seen her do before.

“She’s on the level, Owen, I promise.”

“You’re the cop.” He turned back to the bar where a group of college-aged man-boys in NYU sweatshirts were waiting. He ID’d them right away, and I felt a little guilty knowing it was me who’d set off his radar.

“Owen?” I asked, smirking at her.

“Shush. We’re here to talk about you.”

“Are we?” I leaned back in the booth, trying to act as casual as possible. “What did you mean when you said people were going crazy about me?”

She was drinking from her pint, and I could smell how robust the stout was. She held up her pinky to silence me a moment while she continued to drink, and then licked the foam from her top lip before speaking again.

“People came to see me. At work. About you.” She pulled the ponytail out of her hair and shook it loose, letting the dark curls settle around her face. I could see some of her hair was still damp, which explained the strong, lingering smell of her shampoo. My own hair was greasy, and the curls always looked extra heavy when that was the case. I also was increasingly aware of the fact my shirt was still covered in dry blood, and no one had commented on it yet.

Perhaps Brigit was too dense. Mercedes, on the other hand, must have assumed it belonged to someone else. I picked at the front of my shirt uneasily.

“I was gonna ask you about that.” Her voice gave no sign of any worried edge. If I was in trouble, she knew I would tell her.

“I forgot to change when I got home.”

“You thought to put on fuck-me pumps but not to change your bloody shirt?” She laughed, slapping her palm on the table. I saw Owen turn, his gaze fixed on her, an admiring smile on his lips. “Owen!” She looked at him, failing to realize he’d been watching her the whole time. “You still got those shirts Sam used to make the weekend girls wear?”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

He rummaged under the counter without asking her any details and came up with a tank top in his hand. He walked over to us and held the shirt out for her assessment. It was a skimpy spaghetti-strapped black tank with white printing that read—Fat Sam’s: Helping People Forget Their Problems Since 1964.

“Jesus,” I hissed.

Owen left it on the table, and Mercedes pushed it towards me. “It’s that or walk around looking like a crime scene.” She pointed to my chest, which could have given a blood-spatter analyst a hard-on.

I glared at her, then tossed back my shot for a hit of instant courage. Without waiting to see if the coast was clear, I stripped off my ruined yellow shirt and was in the process of putting the new one on when I heard the chorus of appreciative cheers from the boys at the bar. One of them looked Owen dead in the eyes and said, “This is the greatest bar in the world.”

At least I had worn a bra.

Mercedes grinned and saluted me with her pint glass.

“Now tell me who came to see you,” I said, getting our conversation back on track. Alcohol from the shot was whipping through my system at breakneck speed, making my head feel light. One of the blessings of my condition was that things like alcohol and coffee, the two greatest legal drugs on the market, acted extra fast. They also lasted for far less time, so I almost never got a chance to feel the hangover dregs or caffeine crashes.

“Lucas Fucking Rain, for one.” She said it like fucking was actually his middle name. “He nearly gave the front-desk girl a heart attack when he told her his name.”

If it was the same front-desk girl I’d met on several occasions, I was sorry he hadn’t finished the job. She was a snotty little thing, and there was no love lost between us.

“Must have made you popular.”

“Lucas Rain comes to the homicide department to ask about a missing girl? Yeah. Some knob in my department seemed to think that particular tidbit was fair game for Page Six. Poor Kellen Rain was the target of some pretty scandalous blind-item gossip. Something like Real Estate Heiress’s Brother Talks to Cops: Bad News Beauty in More Than a Little Trouble?”

From what I’d read about Kellen Rain, she was no stranger to being the center of attention. Page Six worshipped her antics, and she put most other spoiled party girls to shame with her drinking, sleeping around and general destruction of public property.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you were safe and you’d come home when you were ready.”

“And he left it at that?”

“He’s a proud man, Secret, and he’s richer than God. He didn’t try to bribe me, but I think he was testing the water to see if I might bite if he did.”

“Cedes, he could have bought you a penthouse on Central Park West without blinking. You should have let him bribe you.”

She laughed again, and I took a long swig of beer. It was cold and dark, and I could almost hear Irish tin whistles while I drank. It felt thick and cloying on my tongue. I loved it.

“He certainly didn’t like it when I sent him on his merry way without any information. For the life of me, I don’t know why you would run away and not take him with you. He is one hell of a good-looking man.”

I smiled and drank a little more but said nothing one way or the other.

“And your vampire came by a few days ago.”

I coughed and beer actually came out my nose as I attempted to stop choking. Had I heard her right? There was only one vampire Mercedes could be talking about, the only one I’d ever introduced her to and vouched for. She hated vampires, so he would also be the only one she would allow around her, all because I told her he was safe.

Holden had gone to see Mercedes, knowing she hated him, to try and find me?

Or, if he was a rogue like the Tribunal was claiming, was he finding people close to me and stalking them to smoke me out? Was his visit to Mercedes a veiled threat on her life? Was Holden telling me I needed to be on guard?

The thought of people I cared about being at risk because someone I once trusted might be turning his back on me sent a chill into my core. I used my old shirt to wipe beer off my face, and Mercedes stopped laughing when she saw the seriousness of my expression.

“What? I thought he was your partner or something.”

I shook my head, the chill refusing to leave me. “What did he say?”

“He asked if I knew where you were, like Lucas had. When I said I didn’t, he asked if I would give you a message.”

I laid my palms on the table and leaned in close, waiting for the words just behind her lips. “What did he say?” I repeated.

“He told me to say, ‘Tell Secret I’ll be seeing her soon.’”

Color drained out of my already-pale face.

“What’s so bad about that?”

“I have to go.” I stood up from the table, swaying a little as the alcohol swelled inside me.

“Secret? What’s the big deal?” Her voice was filled with worry.

“Nothing. Nothing. It’s fine.” I looked back at her, unable to tell her what I should have—to watch her back. There was no sense in worrying her. Nothing would happen to her now that I was home again.

“I have to go find Lucas,” I added, and she smiled knowingly, concern vanishing from her face.

“Yeah you do.” She emphasized the first word. “Anything you want me to tell the bloodsucker if I see him again?”

I wanted to tell her to run if that happened.

“Just tell him ‘Not if I see you first.’”

She shrugged, and I was gone before she could ask anything else.

Chapter Eight

I hadn’t lied when I told her I had to see Lucas. My restored need to find the wolf king was threefold. First, I intended to warn him about Holden; second, I really wanted to see him again; and third, I was drunk.

Rain Hotel was exactly as I remembered it—glossy, sleek and expensive looking. The interior was inviting, and I took a moment to enjoy the array of chandeliers and the full-wall fountain. The harpist was still in her hidden nook, only tonight she was playing “Bohemian Rhapsody”, which was quite a shift from the chamber music she used to play. The slick marble floor would have been hazardous to most women in such high heels, but I marched across the long lobby without any hesitation and pressed the elevator’s up button.