The bartender turned the radio on and piped in the show Friday nights. When I walked through the door, everyone—the few late-night barflies, the bartender, the wait staff—cheered. I blushed. Part of me would never get used to this.
I waved at the compliments and well-wishes and went to the table where Ben sat, folding away his laptop and smiling at my approach. Ben: my mate, the alpha male of my pack. My husband. I was still getting used to the ring on my finger.
Though Ben could pull off clean-cut and intimidatingly stylish when the situation required it, most of the time he personified a guy version of shabby chic. He was slim, fit, on the rough side of handsome. His light brown hair was always in need of a trim. He could usually be found in a button-up shirt sans tie, sleeves rolled up, and a pair of comfortably worn khakis. If you went back in time to a year ago and told me I’d be married to this guy, I’d have laughed in your face. He’d been my lawyer. I only ever saw him when I had problems, and he scowled a lot when I did.
Then he landed on my front door with werewolf bites on his shoulder and arm. I took care of him, nursed him through his first full moon when he shifted for the first time and became a full- fledged werewolf. I’d comforted him. That was a euphemism. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to fall into bed with him. Or so my Wolf side thought.
Over the months, my human side had come to depend on having him in my life. Love had sneaked up on us rather than bursting upon us like cannons and fireworks. And that was okay.
Sliding into the seat next to him, I continued the motion until I was leaning against him, falling into his arms, then almost pushing him out of the seat. Our lips met. This kiss was long, warm, tension-melting. This was the way to end a day.
When we drew apart—just enough to see each other, our hands still touching—I asked, “So, how was it?” The show, I meant. Everyone knew what I meant when I asked that.
He smirked. “I love how you work out your personal issues on the air. It must be like getting paid to go through therapy.”
I sat back and wrinkled my brow. “Is that what it sounds like? Really?”
“Maybe only to me,” he said. “So, are you okay? Everything’s all right?”
“I’m fine. Nothing’s happened. I still haven’t learned anything new.”
“What’s Rick doing?”
“Sitting on rooftops being gargoyle-y. He says he can see ‘patterns.’” I gave the word quotes with my fingers.
“He’s just saying that to make himself look cool,” Ben said. I kind of agreed with him.
“Is there anything else we ought to be doing?” I asked.
“The restraining order against our friend Nick and the Band is filed. There’s not much more we can do until something happens. Maybe this—this emotional harassment—is all there is.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Nick was the leader of the Band of Tiamat. He also led an animal and magic act in Las Vegas , only the animals were all feline lycanthropes. Nick was a were-tiger. The whole act was a front for the Tiamat cult, and when they weren’t using the Babylonian-themed stage and sets in their show, they were using them to conduct sacrifices. Their preferred victims? Werewolves. Dogs and cats, at it again. Nick himself was certainly hot and sexy enough to front a Vegas show. He was also an evil son of a bitch. Gave me chills just thinking about him.
Ben moved his arm over my shoulder, and I snuggled into his embrace. “I wish I could just go back there and . . . beat them up,” I said.
“We’ve been over that. They didn’t manage to kill you last time, so it’s best if we don’t give them a next time.”
Especially since I wouldn’t have quite the backup I did last time I faced the Band of Tiamat. Evan and Brenda, the rather uncomfortably amoral bounty hunters who’d saved my ass, had had to leave Vegas in a hurry to avoid awkward questions from the police. There’d be no help from that corner.
And the one supernatural bounty hunter in the world I actually sort of trusted was still in jail.
“Grant’s keeping an eye on things for us,” Ben continued. “If they do anything funny, we’ll know it.”
Odysseus Grant was a stage magician in Las Vegas , a niche act who’d made his reputation with a retro show featuring old vaudeville props and reviving classic tricks that had gone out of fashion in the age of pyrotechnics and special effects. That was the public face, at least. I still didn’t entirely understand the persona underneath. He was a guardian of sorts, protecting humanity from the forces of chaos. It sounded so overwrought I hesitated to even think it. But, having encountered some of those forces firsthand, I was grateful for his presence.
I had allies. I should have felt strong. I had a whole pack behind me, and a vampire, and a magician. The Band of Tiamat didn’t have a chance against all that.
It had to be enough for whatever they threw at us. It just had to be.
