“He wasn’t supposed to take Trace.”
A red light flashed. He slowed the car. Glanced in the rearview mirror. No sign of a tail. Yet. “He did.” Maybe the words were too cold, but Cain didn’t know any other way to be.
He heard the sharp rasp of her breath, then she said, “Turn right.”
He did.
“Left.” The word was clipped. Eve was worried about her shifter, but she was holding herself together. The woman was strong. Far stronger than Cain had initially realized. “Head straight for two miles,” she told him, “then turn at the federal building.”
He followed her instructions without question, wondering what Eve had planned next.
She had him stop in front of a small tattoo shop called Death Ink. The lights were off, and the place looked abandoned.
“Last night, while I was fighting that guard who locked me in that room to burn”—she exhaled on a heavy breath—“I saw a tat on his arm.”
“Wyatt has a shitload of military guys working for him.” Or ex-military ass**les who’d been kicked out because they were psychotic. “Most of ’em are probably sporting ink.”
“Not like this. Not like this.” She shoved open the door and headed for the small shop.
Death Ink was located right in the middle of a bar strip. Since it was early afternoon, those bars were shut down tight. Cain’s gaze scanned the street. He didn’t see another person anywhere around. He eased from the car. Watched the nice sway of Eve’s ass as she headed for Death Ink. Her ass truly was fine.
It was such a pity the woman could be so lethal.
She slammed her hand on the glass door. “Dru, open the hell up!”
There was no sound from inside. No rustle of movement. No footsteps.
Cain sauntered toward her. She was a wanted woman, her face splashed on the news. Maybe she shouldn’t be screaming so loudly—deserted street or not. “I don’t think anyone’s home,” he murmured.
“Yeah, she is. She’s always here during the day. Dru’s just trying to ignore me.” Eve obviously wasn’t in the mood to be ignored. She lifted her foot and kicked at the door. Glass broke in a long, thin crack. She swore and kicked again. Harder. Again.
It was going to take forever her way.
Cain cleared his throat. She kept kicking. He picked her up, scooted her back, then rammed his fist through the glass. One nice, clean punch. The glass rained down on the ground around them.
“Supernatural show-off,” Eve said, but there was an edge of appreciation in her words.
Cain caught himself smiling. It wasn’t the time or the place. But Eve . . . kept sliding under his guard. Dangerous.
He reached inside and jerked the lock, opening the door. When he stepped inside the shop, the scent of incense and oils burned his nose. But he still didn’t hear anyone. Didn’t see anyone, either. “Told you,” he said as he turned back to glance at her. “No one’s—”
The floor creaked a few feet away from him. Cain whirled to face the threat—and a baseball bat slammed into his head.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When the bat came swinging at him again, Cain was ready. He caught the bat in his left hand. “Don’t f**king think so,” he said as he snatched the bat out of his attacker’s grip, ready to take a swing of his own.
“No!” Eve grabbed the bat. She tried—and failed—to pull it from his grip. “Don’t hurt her. We need her.”
He got a good look at his attacker. All five feet nothing of her. Deceptively delicate, the woman stood mostly in the shadows of the shop. Her eyes were dark and slanted, her skin a light mocha. Her hair was cut short, almost brutally so, as if she’d wanted to look tough.
The cut just made her look more . . . delicate.
“Who the hell is he, Eve?” the slugger asked, jutting up her pointed chin. “And why’d you trash my door?”
“Because you weren’t answering my knock,” Eve fired back even as she kept pulling on the baseball bat. “I need to talk to you, Dru. I had to come inside.”
This is Dru? Cain let Eve take the bat from him.
She tossed it into a corner and faced off against Dru.
Dru’s hot glare swept over Eve. “Do you know how many cops are looking for you right now? You need to be getting your ass out of Dodge.”
Eve shook her head. “No, what I need to be doing is clearing my name, and you’re going to help me.”
But Dru was backing up—very, very fast. “No, I’m not.”
Cain frowned, studying her. She was just a few feet from him, but he couldn’t smell her. Couldn’t hear her heartbeat. If the floor beneath her hadn’t creaked when she’d moved, this Dru could have bashed his head in without any warning.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she snapped at him as she rolled her shoulders. “I’m not the freak in the room.”
“Why can’t I smell you?” He inhaled deeply, but still got nothing.
“’Cause I don’t stink?” she threw right back at him and edged closer to the back wall.
He suspected she was looking for a new weapon. Interesting. His head cocked to the side as he studied her. “I don’t hear your heart beating.” Even vampires had beating hearts, despite the myths about them being the walking dead.
Dru waved that away. “Trust me, it’s beating. So fast my chest hurts.” She jumped behind the counter and came back up with a handgun. “Eve, get your ass out of my shop.”
The sight of the gun had Eve tensing, but she said, “I will, but I want information first.”
Dru raised her gun. “Um, do you want a bullet in your head?”
It was Cain’s turn to step forward. He positioned himself between Eve and the barrel of the gun. “Fire if you want to,” he invited softly, “but then you should probably run.”
Her nostrils flared as if she were trying to get his scent. “You smell”—Dru whispered—“like blood and fire.”
He stared back at her. “And you smell like a woman who’s been using witchcraft.” A woman with no scent. The witches could do that. They could make a brew to cloak scents.
She laughed then. A deep, rumbling laugh that he hadn’t expected from such a small package. “I don’t mess with any crazy witches”—she leaned forward—“but I do know how to mix some herbs for a little protection.”
Protection that could mask her smell? Yes, he’d heard of that, but . . . “Why doesn’t your heart beat?” When he focused just on her, he should be able to hear it.