Page 57 of Fang Fatale

Wildflowers.

Panic.

I don't panic.

Not professionally.

But there are rules.

Hunter.

Target.

Client.

Prey.

I don't like it when someone flips the board over halfway through the game.

If Mason Weir is involved...

Everything changes.

He's brute force.

No hesitation.

No conscience.

Shifters don't survive by learning diplomacy.

They survive by being the strongest thing in the room.

The only reason he hasn't torn my head off yet...

...is because he's waiting to see what I do first.

He's right about one thing.

If I want Birdie safe...

I have to move her.

Tonight.

The walk from Vlad's to Button Cottage is less than a mile.

It takes me nearly twenty minutes.

Every parked truck looks occupied.

Every shadow suddenly has shoulders.

The moon hangs nearly full overhead, bleaching Blackthorn's narrow streets silver until they resemble veins beneath skin.

The old houses crouch in the darkness beneath moss-covered roofs and centuries of questionable insulation.

Every so often a window glows.