A Wolf at the Door

were no goose bumps, no stomach cramps around the strange old man. In fact, he’d even touched my hand without repercussions from Mira’s protective spells, so I think that safely eliminated him from “bad guy” contention.

Still, I decided to watch him. Face it, Felix was one of the more interesting things to happen since I touched down in L.A., and he made more sense than half the people I’d spoken to so far.

As for our little outing, I still wasn’t sure exactly what a “spa day” entailed, despite the fact that it seemed to be one of those things the women in my life enjoyed. I was also unclear as to just what I was supposed to do while Gretchen was doing…whatever it is they did.

“Mostly we read magazines,” Bobby answered from the back when I asked. “Though Tai got a manicure once.”

The Maori blushed, his dark skin getting even darker. “In all fairness, the girl doing it was hot. That’s the only reason.”

Gretchen chuckled, though it was obviously forced. She was trying to paint on a lighter mood. “We could see if she’s there again…I’ll even pay.” Reaching up, she pushed Tai’s shoulder playfully. The big man ducked his head and muttered to himself, but it was all in good-natured fun. “What about you, Jesse? Manicure? Pedicure?” She grinned wickedly. “Bikini wax?”

“I’ll pass, thanks.” It was interesting to watch the shields come down over her eyes, the walls build up around her face again. She painted on her bright and frivolous persona like an artist on a canvas. It was an elaborate show, one she had obviously practiced for a very long time. She sat in the back between Dante and Bobby and chatted until we pulled up to the salon, and you’d think she never had a care in the world.

The place we stopped at was a salon. That’s really all I can say about it. Trendy, I’m sure. Everything done in black geometric shapes. The employees were all dressed in severe black clothes, and the clients seemed to be wandering around in metallic silver robes and fuzzy slippers like some clan of befuddled Martians.

I recognized the music playing softly overhead as some popular Irish-type artist Mira carried in her shop, and the air seemed to be layered with a floral scent. Freesia, I think. Or lavender. I get those mixed up, which is why I’m not allowed to help Mira stock shelves at Seventh Sense anymore.

They greeted Gretchen with hugs and squeals, and swept both her and Dante into the back with very little ado. Bobby and Tai each took up position in a couple of chairs that looked very artsy and were probably uncomfortable as hell. They both, however, were facing the front door. The nonchalance wasn’t entirely authentic. “So how long does this stuff usually take?”

“Couple of hours?” Tai shrugged, picking up a magazine to flip through it. “She’s got a meeting after, so it’s not likely to drag on longer than that.”

Couple of hours? Cripes, I could get my hair cut in a couple of minutes! Glancing around the room one more time, I knew I was going to go stark raving mad if I had to sit here and listen to Irish tin-whistle music for hours.

I’d seen an alley as we’d pulled up to the building, which probably meant I could find the back door to this place. “I’m gonna check the perimeter.”

The back door was in the back. That’s about as interesting as it got. One of the salon employees was in the alley, sneaking a cigarette, and raised a brow as I wandered through. Couple of Dumpsters, some scrubby weeds in the pavement cracks, but nothing sinister. I checked my danger disk as I passed the smoker, but it didn’t react and I had to mentally mark her as clear. Perimeter secure. Sir, yes sir. I felt a little ridiculous.

Returning to the front, I found a place on a bench just outside the door. The least I could do was enjoy the weather. My seat was what we’ll call less than comfortable, but the California sunshine more than made up for it. Seemed like everyone else was enjoying the fine weather too, a constant stream of people parading up and down the sidewalk despite the fact that it was the middle of a weekday. Did no one work here?

People-watching is fun. Well, it used to be. Now, my eyes swept over bared arms, looking for telltale black swirls. Even with the temperatures fairly cool, sun worship ruled here, and most folks had short sleeves on. Made it a little easier. I saw plenty of tans, both real and sprayed on, but no demon tattoos.

I stretched out my legs, got as comfortable as I could, and tried to clear my mind. I had some things to think on.

There definitely was a bad guy in play. That much was certain. Someone who knew I was here. Someone who knew I’d warded the doors. While once upon a time, that would have narrowed down my suspect list, my picture in the morning paper meant that just about anybody could have seen me. And face it, in the demon world, I’m memorable. I’d spanked too many of them for me to go unrecognized.

Hm. If I were a demon, who would I send?

Images of a handless, armless female zombie flashed through my mind’s eye, and I shuddered in spite of the sun. Handless was still out there, somewhere. Prowling the Colorado Rockies, last I knew. Her master was out of the picture for the time being (I hoped) so I didn’t expect to see Handless make an appearance. Besides, she didn’t seem the type to send flowers.

My mirror had ruled out Scrap demons, and honestly, I had no idea what else was even on the table as far as demonic minions.

Maybe just a guy. Some poor demon-sworn schmuck, just following orders in the vain hopes of getting his soul back. I’d encountered that before too. Had the scars to prove it, though not nearly as impressive as some of my others.

Or, maybe Axel was just screwing with me. Though, I couldn’t see him wasting his favor on an elaborate practical joke. That favor was a valuable asset to him, so if he was spending it now, he had his reasons.

In the midst of my deep and circular thoughts, a shiver ran through me and my head snapped up, immediately scoping for the danger. About three seconds later, I realized it wasn’t my danger sense spiking. It was my cell phone, buzzing in my pocket. Mira…

But no, the caller ID said IVAN ZELENKO. Hell. The phone kept buzzing insistently as I stared at it like an idiot, and I started to feel like the old man knew I was debating on whether or not to answer. I could feel that icy, blue-eyed glare across the distance, however great it was.

To pick up, or not to pick up. That was the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to answer the phone and get my ass chewed out (probably rightly deserved), or to valiantly let the call roll to voice mail…yeah, by the time I