Page 53 of Fang Fatale

I catch the tiny tremor in Vlad's hand.

Barely half a second.

Enough.

Then the stranger's eyes meet mine in the mirror.

The atmosphere shifts.

Humans never notice moments like this.

The way conversations seem to stretch.

The way the room cools by half a degree.

The way every predator quietly acknowledges another predator.

I notice.

The shifter notices.

The witches suddenly become fascinated by absolutely anything else.

Vlad tops off the stranger's drink before drifting back toward me.

"Old friend?" he murmurs.

"Not that old."

I keep my eyes on the mirror.

"And definitely not a friend."

The shifter rises with his drink and ambles down the bar until he's exactly one stool away from me.

Close enough.

He turns the seat to face me directly.

His eyes are the tawny yellow you see in a bear a heartbeat after the tranquilizer dart hits—not fully aware, somehow hyper-aware all at once.

"Alaric Grimhaven."

His accent is West Coast.

His cadence is pure Blackthorn Bay.

The kind you only get from spending your entire life refusing to leave.

"Are we exchanging government names," I ask, "or just the ones we use at the county clerk's office?"

He grins, revealing a canine nearly as thick as my little finger.

"Call me Mason."

A beat.

"Mason Weir."