Impulse

noise.

Two door-rattling knocks, a pause and two more. A familiar voice, laced with tight pain. “Let me in, Mendoza, or I’ll bleed to death on the sidewalk.”

Shit. Julio tucked the pistol in the back waistband of his jeans and hurried to open the door.

“Jesus, Patrick. What—” He fell inside, and Julio’s tension ratcheted up a notch. “What’d you get into this time?”

“Shifters.” Patrick righted himself, but his leather jacket gaped open far enough to show a rough bandage wrapped around his upper arm. “Never expected the bastard to pull a gun. The rogue fuckers usually like teeth and claws.”

“Can you blame us?” Julio asked shortly, lifting Patrick’s good arm around his neck. “It’s damn hard to drop either of those, and they don’t jam. It makes a bullet one hell of a surprise, though.”

“Lucky for me, my gun’s bigger.”

“Yeah? Next time, work on using it first.” Worry laced the words, but Julio couldn’t help it.

The sick scent of blood filled the air, strong enough to make him wonder if this would be the time he couldn’t patch his friend up.

Patrick laughed, a borderline-crazy sound that ripped through the stillness. “Nice to know you care.”

It would have been easier to laugh if it wasn’t the fourth time in five months he’d shown up, ripped to pieces and almost manic. “You’re going to get your ass killed, Patrick.”

“I’m doing my job. Just like I always did my job.”

Except that he wasn’t operating at a hundred percent, and he knew it. “So you’re saying nothing’s different.”

The fake grin slipped away, leaving Patrick looking more exhausted than anything. “If you had a weak side, would you be showing it to the wolves who’ve been sniffing around your council seat?”

“No.” Julio helped him into a chair at the kitchen table, flipped on the overhead light and grabbed the first aid kit from the cabinet. “But I would get some reliable backup, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah.” Underneath his jacket, Patrick wore a black T-shirt that had seen better days and jeans as scuffed and dirty as the shirt. He winced as Julio peeled away the makeshift bandage.

“I’ll slow down. These were the last ones.”

The last of the mercenaries involved with the cult that had killed his kid brother. “Don’t think I don’t sympathize, man, but would Ben have wanted you to take these chances?”

“If Ben were alive, he’d be taking them too.” The deep furrow cutting through the tattoos had to hurt, but Patrick showed no sign beyond that tiny flinch. “They didn’t just kill him. They killed the love of his life.”

“I won’t argue with that.” Julio saturated a gauze pad with saline and patted the wound.

“What happens to your tattoos after these things heal? Do they…work again?” It was the closest word he could think of for the undeniable thread of magic that buzzed through the ink, the buzz that was noticeably absent from Patrick’s damaged skin.

The silence went on too long. Finally, Patrick looked away. “Not so far.”

No wonder he was getting his ass kicked. “Can the Shrink fix it?”

A heartbeat. Two. This time, the words sounded tired. “Not so far.”

At least, with the last of the mercenaries gone, he might not be rushing right out into danger again. “You going to stick around for a while? I bet Anna would let you have the apartment over the bar.”

Anna’s name did what a bullet wound couldn’t—made Patrick shift uncomfortably in the chair.

“I need to go to Atlanta to sign some paperwork about Ben’s estate.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. A few days, maybe a week. You want me to check in on your aunt while I’m there?”

Aunt Teresa loved having Patrick visit, and she never missed an opportunity to tell Julio to encourage him to do it more. “She likes cooking for you. She says you eat more than any non-shifter she’s ever seen.”

Patrick pursed his lips, as if he was fighting a smile. “Who wouldn’t, when the food’s that good? Especially when you’re like me and used to living on gas-station chili dogs.”

If they both enjoyed that, all the better. “Is she doing okay? From what you can tell, I mean.

Is she happy?”

“I think so. Her new boyfriend’s so damn charming I wanted to run a background check on him.” Patrick shot him a guilty, almost challenging look. “So I did. He’s quite the Romeo, but squeaky clean. He’s making your aunt happy too.”

She’d had so little of that, and Julio couldn’t help his relief. “Good. That’s what matters.”

“Maybe your cousin will be there when I drop by,” Patrick said, obviously trying for a breezy smile—an effect ruined by his pallor. “I could try to flirt my way into the Mendoza extended family.”

“She knows better than to fall for your crap.” And so did Julio. If Patrick had the slightest bit of interest in Veronica, he wouldn’t have flinched at the mere mention of Anna.

Judging by the tight set of Patrick’s eyes, he knew as much. He waited for a moment, but when Julio didn’t press the issue, some of the tension eased from his body. “Yeah, I’m full of it.

I’ll check in on them when I make it to Atlanta.”

And while he was gone, Julio would handle sweet-talking Anna. “I’ll ask about the apartment before you get back.”

“Only if she’s not staying there,” Patrick amended. “She’s living with the little redheaded coyote, now, isn’t she? Franklin Sinclaire’s daughter?”

It was Julio’s turn to tense—at the mention of Sera. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if it was going to be you and Anna crammed into one bedroom. You’d kill each other—or worse.”

“Most likely.” Patrick dropped his good arm to the table, scratching at one of the scuff marks. “I did it for all of you, not only the ones who died. The ones who had to live with what happened too.”

Panic rose in a tumultuous wave, threatening to drown Julio before he crushed it down with a slow, deep breath. “You don’t owe anybody anything, McNamara, and thinking you do is going to drive you nuts. Worry about yourself. Hell, worry about Ben too. But let the rest of us worry about ourselves.”

“Aren’t you a cheerful hypocrite?”

“Uh-huh. I’m also the hypocrite patching you up at the moment, so spare me the lecture.”

“I lasted six weeks in-between injuries this time. That was some damn epic self-restraint.”

“Maybe.” And maybe they were all just spinning. God knew therapy sessions with Callum had barely put a dent in his nightmares, the ones where he woke with his heart in his throat, the sheets soaked with sweat.

“It’s over, Julio.” Patrick twisted far enough to meet his eyes. “They’re dead. The ones who kidnapped you, the ones who helped, even the ones who took their fucking money and ran. It’s over.”

Julio kept his mouth shut as he cleaned the wound and bandaged it again. “This’ll hold, but you should go to the clinic. I’ll drive.”

The truth was difficult, far more complex than Patrick’s simple vengeance would allow.

It was never really over.

Her father had been gone for twenty-four hours and mild panic had set in.

So much for independence.

Sera rubbed her thumb over the caller ID display on the phone, as if cleaning the tiny plastic window would change Blocked to something else. A name, a phone number. Some information about whoever had felt the need to call—twice—only to hang up when she answered the phone.

Panic was silly. She lived with a bounty hunter and had a half-dozen of the scariest supernaturals in New Orleans on speed-dial. Her apartment had sufficient wards to keep out anyone short of God himself, and He might not get past them fast enough to avoid the cavalry.

One phone call, and Sera would have rescuers piling onto her doorstep, ready to eviscerate anyone who made so much as a threatening noise at her.

Even that knowledge couldn’t keep sick dread from twisting in her gut until the scent of freshly baked brownies drifting out of the kitchen made her queasy.