Page 41

Kessler’s gaze flicks to her, lingers a fraction too long, and something in me tightens so abruptly the mark beneath my collar burns.

‘This is my associate, Eira Cross,’ I say coldly.

‘Good to meet you, Miss Cross.’ He attempts a smile. ‘And I hope you will give me the chance to show how solid my honour is, Don Moretti.’

‘Hmm.’

His face tightens at my complete noncommittal, but he manages to keep the smile in place before slinking away when he realises conversation will not be forthcoming.

For one hour, I perform civility while my body behaves as if it has been rebuilt for war. Sound comes too clearly, scents slicing too sharp. The crackle of a cigarette lighter on the terrace makes my fangs ache, and when a man laughs too close to Eira, I have to remind myself that tearing a senator’s donor in half before dessert lacks strategy.

Beneath the exhilaration, a warning pulses but I push the thought away.

And I watch Kessler grow sweatier and drink too quickly for a man trying to appear composed.

I lean slightly towards Eira. ‘Your assessment?’

‘Shifty as hell,’ she murmurs. ‘Even more than a normal politician.’

‘High praise.’

She snorts softly. ‘I’m not sure if I actually smell his desperation or if it’s the death-by-cologne competition happening under our noses.’

I glance at her. ‘Do you find your senses heightened, little hunter?’

She looks momentarily alarmed. Then she shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Before we… whatever we are calling this, I would have cut someone if they even hinted I might enjoy vampire party tricks. Now here I am, hearing you in my head and apparently identifying panic sweat through designer fragrance. So maybe?’

I study her closely. Suddenly itching to ask if she likes this new level of being. This electric thread between us. This thing that should not exist in a hunter I hired to find another woman.

The question sits on my tongue and goes no further.

Her gaze slides to mine.

What? she asks through the tether.

The silent shape of her voice nearly undoes me.

Nothing material.

Liar.

Interesting accusation from you, cacciatrice.

She tries to hide her smile behind her glass and fails beautifully. And I am still watching her when Kessler approaches again, his face drawn tight beneath the sweat. ‘Don Moretti. May I speak to you privately? It’s urgent.’

‘Urgency for you is entirely inconsequential to me. Speak.’

His throat bobs, eyes flicking to Eira, then away. ‘I think it might be, Don. It’s about… that incident. The one in the city with the dead teleporter.’

Tezra.

Eira goes still beside me, the humour draining from her expression in an instant.

Kessler swallows. ‘I was in Chicago recently, and I heard some things. I thought you should know.’

I draw in his scent. Peer into his watery eyes. His desperation is cloying, but I cannot smell deceit. If memory has been altered or fear layered over the truth, the camouflage is strong enough to resist casual scrutiny.

Maybe hear him out? Eira murmurs. And try not to look like you want to remove his throat through his spine.