was an odd double-chambered glass syringe wrapped from tip to plunger in a fine metallic cagework of glyphs. And in that syringe was my blood. Six guns from his goons were pocketed and pointed at me.
Subtle. Deadly. “Tomorrow by midnight.” Trager deposited the syringe in his pocket.
I stood to throw a spell at him, regardless of the stupidity of taking him down with all his gun-buddies ready to waste me, and thumped back into the seat on my ass. A wave of dizziness washed over me. The sickeningly sweet taste of cherries exploded in the back of my mouth, and the entire bus slipped sideways while a flood of heat spread out over my thigh.
What was on that needle?
By the time the dizziness passed-maybe a full minute and a half-Trager and his men were gone, the bus was no longer at the curb, and the seat across from me was now filled with a mother and two kids sitting on their knees so they could look out the window behind them.
Sweet hells. I was so screwed.
Lon Trager had my blood.
And I didn’t know what he was going to use it for.
I thought about calling the police on my cell, but it was beyond busted.
Magic shifted in me, pressed to slip my tenuous hold on it. It promised anything, promised to destroy Trager, if I was willing to pay for it.
No. I’d find a traditional way to throw his ass back in jail. Some way that he wouldn’t be able to plea or bribe his way out of.
I’d be at the police station in just a few minutes. Enough time to calm my pounding heart and regain my cool.
Tall buildings slid through the branches of trees that lined the streets as the bus continued into downtown. At the next stop, a man wearing a ski hat, a gray trench coat, and a black scarf walked up the two stairs and paused to scan the bus like he was looking for someone. He had a newspaper folded under his arm. The brown paper cup in his hand sent out the scent of coffee like strains of music from a caffeine angel’s harp.
He paid, glanced again at the mostly full seats, and caught me looking at him. Okay, I was really looking to make sure he wasn’t carrying a gun, but still, he caught my glance.
Here is something else that’s weird about me. I do not look away when people catch me staring at them. I’d spent too many years staring down my father even though I hadn’t ever won. My father had a deep need to control people-his only daughter perhaps most of all. Still, it taught me not to back down from confrontation.
The man with the coffee smiled, just the slightest curve of his lips, and walked my way. He didn’t look away either, and I found myself staring into a pair of eyes the color of winter honey. He had a square face with heavy brows and eyes framed by very dark lashes. I didn’t think he’d shaved this morning, and it looked good on him.
“This seat taken?” he asked.
What was it with me and strange men today?
“Yes.”
He frowned, looked toward the front of the bus. No other empty seats. But instead of pushing it, which would have gotten him a broken nose because no one was screwing with me again, he took a couple steps forward. He switched his cup into his left hand so his right hand was free to hold the overhead bar. With the newspaper pinned under his arm, he took a sip of coffee.
I sniffed him out, searching for a hint of Trager’s French cologne. Instead of Trager’s overpowering scent, this man’s cologne-sandalwood and sweet oranges-mixed with the fragrance of coffee. A delicious combination made more delicious because he didn’t smell like Trager, didn’t smell like the goons, the guns, or the danger that had suddenly pushed its way into my morning.
My gut said he was just a regular guy.
Well, Regular Guy would just have to ride the bus on his regular feet.
We rode awhile in silence, me looking out the window across the aisle, keeping him in my peripheral vision, him looking ahead. He took a sip from his cup, and the smell was sweet torture.
At the next stoplight, he let go of the bar and extended his right hand. “Paul Stotts,” he said.
I did not shake his hand. “Good for you.”
“I know you,” he said. “Allie Beckstrom, right?”
I did a quick search through my memories. I didn’t remember him, but instinct told me he wasn’t as Regular Guy as he appeared to be. “How long have you been following me?”
“Hmm,” he said around a swallow of coffee. “Just today.”
He didn’t hold himself like a Hound, didn’t have that desperate look of a Hound, and was wearing too much cologne to be a Hound. He also didn’t look or smell like he was into blood magic or drugs, so maybe he wasn’t a part of Trager’s game. But with Trager’s “my people are everywhere” speech ringing in my head, I did not want to chance it.
“Police,” he said. “Detective Stotts.”
Oh. I hadn’t expected that.
“Police? Where were you two stops back?”
“Waiting for the bus. Why?”
I hesitated. Did I really want to go into this in public? Just because the goons got off the bus with Trager didn’t mean someone else wasn’t here acting as his ears. If Trager had any brains-and I had to assume he did, since he had not only created the largest blood-and-drugs cartel in the city, but he had also pulled a get-out-of-jail- free card-he would have left someone behind to watch me and report back.
Hells, for all I knew Stotts could be his guy.
I rubbed at my forehead with the tips of my gloves. “Never mind. Are you here to make sure I get to the station?”
He glanced at me and then away. “Well, we didn’t want to leave anything to chance.”
He had no idea how chancy it had been. Still, that was interesting. I’d never had police protection or escort. At least, I didn’t remember having it. So far, I wasn’t all that impressed.
“Didn’t think I could manage it on my own?”
He smiled, that soft curve of his mouth. Okay, this close, I noticed that his bone structure had a Latino influence: arched cheekbones, square jawline, but soft eyes and lips. A very nice combination.
Yes, I looked at his left hand. Saw the wedding ring. Can’t blame me for being curious.
“We thought it might be better if you had an escort.” And I could tell by the tone of his voice, and the rhythm of his heart, that he was telling the truth.
So it was a friendly gesture. The police were looking out for me, not against me.
“How thoughtful.”
He took a drink of coffee, nodded. “You haven’t exactly been living on easy street lately. Pegged for murder, shot, chased, nearly killed by wild storm magic.”
“And the coma,” I said.
He nodded. “It just seemed like the odds of you getting to the station unscathed were pretty low.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I drawled.
“Could be worse,” he said.
The bus pulled to another stop, and I caught a glimpse of the police station through the rain-pebbled window. This was our stop.
“Worse?”
“Decker could have been on duty.”
I winced. Officer Decker and I did not get along. Not since the time I’d Hounded a drug deal back to his brother’s girlfriend and found out I’d been mistaken. It was his brother, not the girlfriend, who was dealing and Offloading the price of magic onto a retirement home. It had been my testimony that put his brother in jail. Since then I mostly tried to avoid Decker.
Detective Stotts stepped backward and waited for me to take the place in front of him.
“Aren’t you chivalrous?” I asked as I stepped into the aisle.
“No,” he said from close behind me. “Just trying to keep my eye on you.”
“Get in line,” I muttered. Actually, I appreciated his honesty. I would appreciate it even more as soon as I
