“I just want to ask you a few questions!” He’d waved his hands in the air to get the were’s attention as it sliced, diced, and flung body parts all over the garden.
The were had then turned her attention toward him and charged. He’d whipped out the pocketknife from his boot, feeling completely ridiculous for carrying such a wimpy blade, and poked the thing in the claw. The bird shrieked and recoiled, quickly getting distracted by a man trying to climb the garden wall.
Behind him, Damien had heard a soft whimper, and that was when he realized the woman in the control-top had been behind him the entire time. The eagle had wanted her, not him.
Either way, the eagle had finished off the other guests and started its own personal bonfire before flying off into the night.
“I mean it,” said the woman. “I’m forever in your debt. Anything you want. Money, a new car, me? It’s yours.” She offered a coy smile.
Tailor, you know you have to kill her, right? She can’t be trusted and will tell the others in her depraved social circle what happened. And she knows your face.
Damien wasn’t ready to come to any conclusions just yet.
“Why were you at that party?” he asked her.
“A friend invited me. I had no idea they were going to have that creature there,” she said innocently.
She was lying. Just like she’d lied about her knockoff Valentino to impress her rich friends.
“Try again. With the truth this time. What was Vincente raising the money for? What did he plan to do with it?”
“I honestly don’t know. My friend just told me the governor’s brother was having a party and asked if I wanted to go. She said he collected exotic creatures. That’s all I know.”
Damien would never go so far as to call himself a living lie detector, but people always had tells. The most common? When a person looked away while giving an answer. Also, this woman was faker than her knockoff dress.
You know what you must do, tailor. She will be able to identify your face, and Vincente’s brother will be after you next.
“Do you really work for some sort of monster animal control?” she asked.
See. She’s fishing for information, tailor.
His beast was right. The first chance she had, she’d be telling her sick friends about him. The hunter would become the hunted.
Damien turned his body toward her. “Yes, I work for a very secret, powerful organization. And I would appreciate it if you did not say anything about what you witnessed. It might cause a public scare.”
“I won’t say a word,” she said, batting her eyelashes.
He took her hand and kissed the top. “I hope you have a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, just pretend it was all a bad dream and move on.”
She got out of his Jeep and closed the door, heading down the walkway toward her front door.
She’d be dead by morning. He’d opened his heart to her, extending his compassion. She had no idea this was the end of the road.
Good job, tailor.
“Shut the fuck up.” This was the exact reason he’d stopped being a fixer. It was why he didn’t want to do this job for the gods. Innocent people ended up getting in the way. Not that this woman was necessarily innocent, but was she any worse than most? How about compared to himself?
Suddenly, a loud shriek went off outside his Jeep. He leaned forward, looking out the windshield. The woman was gone.
Damien stepped outside and watched the giant winged creature carrying off a limp body. The were-eagle had come for the last guest.
I’m always impressed, tailor. Your curse is very effective.
“Silence. No one asked you.”
Damien hadn’t felt this low in a very long time. Not only had he failed his mission tonight, but he’d very likely opened up a new large can of worms.
Or perhaps not?
While he hadn’t been able to question Vincente, Damien had learned something important. The man was part of a bigger movement geared toward eradicating supernatural life from the world, and that fundraiser had been all about raising money for their cause.
But how would the money be deployed? Weapons? Soldiers to hunt immortals? Something else?
I vote for something else. What Damien found entirely fishy about this event was how immortals were being used to foster panic, when in reality there were so few left on the planet. The blast had seen to that. Vincente’s cause seemed phony as hell.
Damien felt a tingle in his gut. This was all connected somehow—the sex trafficking, the Brown brothers’ den of torture, the fundraiser, and the blast.
In the morning, once he had a fresh mind, he would map out his next move.
He parked his Jeep in the garage, noticing his van was out front on the street. Bits of leaves and branches were stuck to the grille this time. More of Sky’s excellent driving.
Why the hell were they back? He’d told them to leave.
He entered the house, passing by the kitchen. Still a freaking mess. He went to the cupboard where he kept some of his scotch stash, finding it empty. “Sonofabitch. Who drank my scotch?”
“Oh. Hi. You must be Damien,” said a soft, sweet voice.
Damien turned around. In the doorway leading to the living room was a slender woman with long black hair and full lips. She had big brown eyes and high cheekbones. She was stunning. She looked just like Sky.
Dear God. What was Sky thinking? Damien felt his chest tighten and his pulse quicken. Not good. Not good. Very…beautiful. Smells nice, too. Alarms were going off in his head.
“I’m Amelia, Sky’s sister. Thank you for inviting us to stay here.” Her eyes sank down to the spots of blood on his white dress shirt. “Are you okay?”
“Cut myself shaving.”
“But that’s a lot of bloo—”
“You are not staying here,” he said sternly. “Pack your bags immediately. This instant. Out!”
Oh, tailor. Must she go? I think I’d like to play with her.
“No. You are not playing with anyone,” Damien snarled at his beast.
“Sorry?” said Amelia. “I-I don’t understand. My sister said—”
“If you haven’t noticed, your sister is dead, because I ran—
“She’s what?” Amelia blinked, her face turning a pallid shade of taupe.
“Yes. Dead. And you will be next if you do not leave this instant. Goodbye.” He pushed past her, not daring to glance at her body with the full high breasts and wide sexy hips.
God, he loved a nice pair of hips. The way they curved beneath the fabric of a straight skirt to create the classic female silhouette.
No. Ugly. Horrible. He rushed past her, beelining for his liquor cabinet in the living room. He grabbed a bottle of scotch and went upstairs. He stripped off his bloody clothes, tossing them on top of the wastepaper basket. They were ruined.
Damien looked down at his boxers, just now noticing the little chew holes. Wonderful. And these can go in the trash, too.
Amelia suddenly appeared in front of him. “You can’t just say something like that and walk away.”
He grabbed his white robe and slid it on. “Why are you still here?” So beautiful. Do. Not. Look.
“What did you mean, my sister’s dead? I just got a text from her in the van on the way here.”
Damien froze. “Hold on. Who picked you up from the airport?”