“The Temple called.”
This ought to be interesting. I’d gone to the Temple trying to restore a Jewish parchment to figure out my aunt’s identity. She took exception to that and the Temple had suffered some damage. The rabbis had chased me off the Temple grounds, but not before one of them healed my wounds. I hadn’t handled the entire situation very well, so when the storm was over, I’d packed the parchment’s fragment and sent it to the Temple as a gift, with my apologies.
“Rabbi Peter sends his regards. He’s very happy with the parchment. It has some sort of historical value. You’ve been forgiven and you may visit the Temple, provided you give them twenty-four hours’ notice.”
To mobilize their forces, no doubt, and lay out an adequate supply of paper and pens to counteract whatever trouble I unleashed. Jewish mysticism was difficult to study, but it gave its practitioners great rewards. When rabbis said that the pen was mightier than the sword, they meant it.
Derek’s lips curved into a slight smile. “Also, Ascanio Ferara got himself arrested again.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
Ascanio was quickly turning into the bane of my existence. A fifteen-year-old bouda, he was 125 pounds of batshit-crazy hormones and had no sense to go with them. The kid had never met a law he didn’t want to break. The Pack was very much aware that outsiders viewed them as monsters, and they made a point of cracking down on any criminal activity with steel claws. The same deal that brought me Barabas and Jezebel compelled me to ask for lenience on Ascanio’s behalf. Unfortunately, Ascanio seemed bound and determined to earn himself some hard labor.
“What did he do now?”
“He was caught having group sex on the morgue steps.”
I stopped and looked at him. “Define ‘group.’ ”
“Two women.”
It could have been worse.
“For a fifteen-year-old kid he’s doing well for himself,” Derek said, his face completely deadpan.
“Don’t even go there.”
Derek chuckled.
That was the problem with teenage werewolves—they had no appreciation for other people’s pain.
He gave me a half bow, half nod, turned back to his office, and stopped. “Kate?”
“Yes?”
“You said once you didn’t care for bodyguard detail. Why?”
Where was he going with this? “Two reasons. First, no matter how great you are, you account for only about fifty percent of the chance of success. The other fifty is riding on the body you’re guarding. I’ve seen brilliant guards utterly fail, because the owner of that body couldn’t follow a simple directive like ‘Stand here and don’t move.’ ”
“And second?”
“Bodyguarding is reactive by definition. You’ll get some people who’ll argue this point with you, but ultimately, you are in defense mode for most of the job. I don’t have the mind-set for constant defense. I pick fights, I get aggressive, and I end up focusing on killing the target rather than keeping my client alive. I don’t like to sit and wait. I can do it, because I was trained to do it, but it’s not in my nature.”
Derek gave me an odd look. “So you get bored.”
“Yep. I guess that’s it in a nutshell. Why do you ask?”
He shrugged. “No reason.”
“Aha.” We’d been down this road before, and then he got some molten metal poured on his face. “Don’t get yourself into something you can’t handle.”
He grinned, a quick flash of teeth. “I won’t.”
“I mean it.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“You’re not that kind of scout.”
The grin got wider. “You worry too much.”
“If you get yourself killed, don’t come crying to me.”
Derek laughed and went back to the guard office.
He was up to something. If I slammed a lid on it now, he would never forgive me for treating him like a child. If I didn’t, he might get his face bashed in again. Either way, total fail.
Friends made life entirely too complicated.
I kept walking, not caring if I limped. Nobody would see me here.
On the right, Julie’s black door came up. A dagger gleamed in the middle of it—Julie got the idea from the Order. A skull and crossbones drawn in fluorescent paint shone above the dagger. Under it assorted signs screamed warnings: DON’T COME IN, ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK, DANGER, MY ROOM NOT YOURS, ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE, CAUTION, STAY OUT, KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING.
Staying in that school might have been the right thing for her, but I missed her. She was happy in the Keep. And she had Maddie for a friend, which was great because Maddie was sensible. Normally Julie and sensible couldn’t fit into the same building. She had gotten her wish—she was coming home. Except it would be on my terms and she didn’t have to like it.
I HAD PEELED OFF THE LAST SHRED OF CLOTHES FROM my body when Curran walked through the door of our rooms. Some men were handsome. Some were powerful. Curran was . . . dangerous. Muscular and athletic, he moved with an easy, confident grace, perfectly balanced, and you knew just by watching him that he was strong and fast. He could stalk like a hungry tiger, moving across the floor in absolute silence. I’d spent a lifetime listening for faint noises of danger and he would sneak up on me just to see me jump, because he thought it was funny. But his physical power alone didn’t make him special—many men were strong and fast and could walk quietly.
It wasn’t his body that set Curran apart. It was his eyes. When you looked into them, you saw chained violence baring teeth and claws back at you, and your instinct told you that if he ever let himself off that chain, you would not survive. He was terrifying on some deep, primordial level, and he wielded that fear like a weapon, using it to inspire panic or confidence. He walked into each room as if he owned it. I used to think it was arrogance—and it was; His Overbearance had a rather high opinion of himself—but egotism accounted for only a fraction of it. Curran radiated a supreme confidence. He would handle any problem he encountered efficiently and decisively, and if you stood in his way, he didn’t have even the slightest hint of doubt that he could kick your ass. People sensed it and rallied behind him. He could walk into a room of hysterical strangers, and in seconds they would calm down and look to him for leadership.
He was dangerous. And difficult. And he was all mine.
Sometimes in the morning, when he worked in the gym one floor below, I’d stand by the gym’s glass wall for a few minutes before I came in to spar. I’d watch him lift dumbbells or do dips with the weights attached to his belt, powerful muscles bulging and relaxing with controlled exertion, while the bars creaked under his weight and sweat slicked his short blond hair and skin until it glowed. Watching him never failed to send a slow insistent heat through me. He wasn’t working out now. He was standing there in sweatpants and a blue T-shirt, carrying some sort of bottle, and I was ready to jump his bones. I could picture him above me in the bed.
At least it didn’t show on my face. I had to have some dignity left.
I’d missed him so much, it almost hurt. It started the moment I left the Keep and nagged at me all day. Every day I had to fight with myself to keep from making up bullshit reasons to call the Keep so I could hear his voice. My only saving grace was that Curran wasn’t handling this whole mating thing any better. Yesterday he’d called me at the office claiming that he couldn’t find his socks. We talked for two hours.
I’ve faced many things in my life. But this emotion scared the living daylights out of me. I had no idea how to handle it.
Curran smiled at me. “I was told you got in and went to see Doolittle.”
The Keep had no secrets.
“So I stopped there to check on your diagnosis.” Curran lifted the bottle. “You’re supposed to take a hot bath with this in it. And I have to watch you very closely from a very short distance to make sure your knee doesn’t fall
