DANIEL FREY LIVES IN MISSION VALLEY IN A large, upscale condo development overlooking the city. It's a gated community and I lean out the car window to ring his unit.

In a moment he answers with an abrupt, "Yes? Who is it?"

"What kind of greeting is that?"

"Anna?" A pause. "You're here to see me?"

"No. I'm here to see your neighbor. The cute old guy. Of course, I'm here to see you. Are you going to buzz me in or what?"

There's another pause.

"Frey, what's going on? Why aren't you buzzing me in?" No answer. Another pause. Then, finally, the gate swings open.

I punch the accelerator and speed through before he changes his mind. What was that all about? I know I haven't seen him since we stopped a demon raising last Halloween, but we parted on good terms. I saved his life, for Christ's sake. Well, technically, an empath saved his life. I saved his ass, though, which allowed the empath to save his life, so that should count for something.

By the time I reach his door, I've worked myself into a pretty good sense of indignation. My finger is about to hit the doorbell when the front door swings open. Frey greets me with a frown and steps outside, pulling the door closed behind him.

"This really isn't a good time, Anna," he says.

For a minute, I'm too distracted by what he has on to be irritated by the less-than-hospitable greeting. He tries to pull a white terry robe closed, but he's not quick enough and the robe isn't big enough to keep me from seeing what he's wearing underneath.

Frey is a shape-shifter whose other form is panther. His human job is teaching, at my mother's high school, in fact. It's how we met. He's in his forties, tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face that reflects humor and intelligence. He's a conservative dresser, leaning toward slacks and open-neck polos. So to find him in a pair of baby blue pajamas with black cats stenciled all over them provokes an openmouthed gape.

His mouth forms a thin, rigid line. "What's wrong?"

Astonishment is giving way to an irresistible urge to laugh. Not the right reaction if I want his help. I swallow hard and struggle to erase the smile off my face.

The effort is not lost on Frey. His frown deepens. "Well?"

"I need to do some research. I figured your library would be the place to start."

"Research about what?"

"Your cousins."

"Cousins?"

"The were side of the family."

The brows draw together. "Shape-shifters are in no way related to weres. They are pack animals, dangerous in and out of their animal bodies." He looks at me and for the first time, something besides aggravation touches his expression. "Anna, you want nothing to do with weres. Hasn't Williams ever told you that?"

"No. He had his chance, too. I saw him last night. Anyway, I've got no choice in this. I need to know what magic they possess. What spells they can cast. I need the information before tonight."

He glares at me, a dark intensity shadowing his eyes. "What happens tonight?"

"I have to meet with a were. It's business."

"What business could you possibly have with a were?"

Frey and I used to be able to read each other's thoughts, the way I can with vamps. That changed when I stupidly bit him once, and fed from him, which broke that connection. I see in his expression that he wishes he could crawl into my head right now and pry the information out of me. I also see deep concern and a dawning realization that he may be able to do something to stop me.

"Frey," I say with a warning shake of my head. "You can't stop this. Don't try. No tricks. I know you think you would be protecting me, but believe me when I say if you do anything to try and prevent this, I'll be angry. More than angry. I'll be downright pissed. We both know that wouldn't be good."

He continues to stare at me, the internal debate obviously still raging. He, too, has the ability to cast spells. I have firsthand knowledge. He cast one on me a while back. Judging from that experience, though, I know he has to be present to invoke it and to keep the object of the spell under its control. Unless he plans to stay with me all day and night, I don't think he can really do anything to prevent my meeting with Sandra.

Still.

"If you want to help, let me use your books. Find out how to protect myself. Doesn't that make sense?"

The debate comes to an end. His expression is still anxious but he does swing open the door.

His sartorial taste isn't the only thing that's changed.

The last time I was in Frey's home, the decor was minimalist to say the least-the walls, the carpet, the furniture, all the same color-gray. There were no pictures on the walls, no knickknacks on the tables, not a single book on the smooth, marble block that serves as a coffee table.

That was then.

Today the walls are alive with colorful works of art-bold landscapes done in great slashing strokes of green and yellow and red. The furniture has been rearranged, not symmetrically, but clustered in front of the fireplace. Throw pillows tumble over each other and spill onto the floor. A stack of books and a fan of magazines battle for space with a huge bouquet of violet lilies on that same marble coffee table.

It takes me a minute to absorb it all.

"Wow," I say, turning to Frey, "when you redecorate, you don't fool around, do you?"

"But he does fool around with the decorator."

The voice comes from behind me, startling me into whirling around. I never heard her approach, never sensed the presence. She must have come from outside, the balcony. "What are you, a cat?"

She smiles. "Sorry. I should have made more noise."

Frey moves around me to stand beside the woman. She's tall, only an inch or two shorter than his six feet, and willowy thin. She has light brown hair drawn back from her face. Her eyes, blue, cool, are carefully hooded as she looks at me. She's pretty in an edgy way, velvet over steel.

She's dressed in a pair of pajamas that match Frey's-only hers are pink with little black cats-and, oh, a couple of other major differences: her top is low-cut, revealing a curve of breast, and her pants ride low on her hips, exposing a tanned stretch of trim abdomen. No robe for this one. She's immodesty personified.

Makes me see Frey in a new light. He and I had sex. Once. It was pretty damned good, too, but if this is Frey's girlfriend, he must have talents he hid from me.

She's watching me, a half smile playing on those full lips. It hits me then. She's reading my thoughts. Shit. She's a shape-shifter, too. She now knows everything that's gone through my head in the last few minutes. Too late now to close the conduit.

You might have let me know.

She laughs. Why? This was so much more fun.

Are you a panther, too?

No. She links her arm through Frey's. A tiger.

Figures. I knew she had to be some kind of cat.

Frey is looking from one of us to the other. "This isn't fair," he says. "I can only hear one side of the conversation."

She tilts her head up and gives Frey a kiss on the cheek. "Go tend to Anna's needs," she says. "I'm going to shower."

Color floods Frey's face as he watches her walk toward the bedroom. She must have thrown him a parting remark that I wasn't privy to.

"Care to share?" I ask.

"No." He straightens his shoulders and gestures toward the hall. "Let's go to the library."

I follow in his wake. "Does the sex kitten have a name?" "She didn't tell you?"

"No. Would I be asking if she did?"

"Layla. Her name's Layla."

"Any last name?"

We're at the door to the library and he swings it open. He doesn't answer. He's never been secretive with me before and it's creeping me out.

"She said she's a decorator? Where does she work?"

No answer. Again. If he doesn't give me something to work with, how am I going to check this kitty out?

He's at the shelves, trailing a finger over a row of books. Frey's library is extensive, three walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Each book has the name of a literary classic embossed on its spine.

The room smells of old paper and aged leather, like an antiquarian bookstore. Except that these books are not literary classics. They're books on magic. Cleverly disguised and protected by a spell.

Frey makes his decision with a grunt and a snap of his fingers. He pulls down a volume and turns to me, clutching the book against his chest.

"I'm still not sure I should do this," he says.

I hold out a hand for the book. "Look at it this way, if you don't and I walk into a were trap, will you ever forgive yourself?"

Again the grunt but this time, he puts the book in my hand. "Read the first three chapters. And chapter seventeen. They contain the relevant information."

The book lies heavy on my palm. The title says Great Expectations, and if I were human, what I'd see when I opened the book would be the Dickens text. What I see now upon opening the book is Old English calligraphy.

English?

I look up at Frey. "The last time I looked at one of these books, the text was some kind of hieroglyphic. Are they all different?"

He gives me a tight-lipped smile. "I wasn't sure about you then."

"You have the ability to change the text?"

"Oh, Anna, I have all sorts of abilities. You'd be amazed."

I stare at him. Having met Layla, he's probably right. As for the books, I knew they were spell protected. It appears Frey is the spellbinder. Impressive.

He takes my arm and steers me toward the door. "Promise me you'll be careful, Anna. And call me if you have any questions. In fact, call me after your meeting."

"You're that concerned about my meeting with the were?"

He looks grim again. "After you read those chapters, I'm hoping you'll reconsider the meeting. No business can be that important. Or if you must go, take someone with you for backup. Williams maybe. He seems to have some free time on his hands right now."

My thoughts are suddenly of Sandra. Irrational thoughts, like I don't want to share her with anyone. I shake my head to clear the cobwebs. That I would be thinking such a thing seems to make Frey's point.

I raise the book. "I will read this before I make any decisions. I promise."

He doesn't seem too impressed nor does he look relieved at my words. He opens his mouth to say something else when the bedroom door opens and a naked, wet Layla appears in the doorway.

"Oh," she says, making no attempt to cover herself or duck back into the room. "Anna, you're still here?"

Like I hadn't caught that probe she deliberately sent out a second before opening the door. Rolling my eyes at both of them, I head out the front door.

Layla is a piece of work, true, still I don't know why I'm feeling so agitated as I make my way back to the car. The last time we were together, Frey told me that he had a girlfriend. I didn't give it much thought. I would have expected her to be someone like himself. Dignified. Sedate. This tiger is clearly a man-eater. She'll gobble him up and spit him out in a New York minute if he isn't careful. Makes my spidey sense tingle. She's had a profound influence on someone I consider a friend-right down to taking over his living area.

I press the car lock on the remote and slip into the driver's seat. Layla will have to wait. I have plenty on my plate at the moment. Still, she's added to my to-do list.

Right after Gloria and David . . . and Sandra.

I have an hour or so before Gloria calls to let me know if I'm going to meet her at her home or in jail. Might as well get a jump on my "research." I settle the book on my lap.

It's as far as I get. My cell phone rings. I'm mighty popular this morning. The number on the display is a familiar one.

"Hi, Mom. What's up?"

"Oh, Anna." My mother sounds breathless and excited. "You are never going to guess what happened."

"You sound happy so it must be something good. Tell me."

"I'd rather do it in person. Can you come over now?"

Crap. I glance at my watch. I'd just make it to East County, where they live, and have to turn around and come back to meet Gloria. "I can't right this minute. Can't you tell me over the phone?"

She starts to laugh. "No. I have to see your face when you hear this."

"Can you give me a hint?"

"When can you get here?"

"Late this afternoon, maybe?"

"Excellent. Come for dinner. We'll be waiting. A bientot, ma chere fille."

She disconnects without waiting for me to respond.

Ma chere fille?

I close my phone and drop it back into my bag. What was that all about? My mom has always been a Francophile, but since when did she start talking to me in French?

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