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The two leaders exchanged wary looks.

“Neither one of you wishes to proceed without guarantees.”

“We’re not stupid,” the vampire king agreed.

Errata gave a satisfied nod. “Then, if you allow it, I will help you negotiate an agreement that shares the risk and the glory between you both.”

“That’s a bold proposition,” Malatest said. “And a difficult one.”

“Easy wouldn’t be worth my effort.”

“What do you get out of this?” Devries demanded.

“People do like to ask me that.” A hint of impatience crept into Errata’s voice. “I get the satisfaction of stopping the Magician. I don’t want this problem reaching my home town. I want our cubs to live.”

“How very noble,” Malatest said with a sneer. “I think the truth is you’re here to make your name. You’re an entertainer, a radio personality with dreams of scooping a hard news story.”

Errata tensed, a fine tremble of anger passing over her. But the cat woman had self-control. She smoothed her hair from her eyes and gave him a pointed smile. “You want hard? I’ve negotiated intellectual property rights with telepaths. You two are well within my wheelhouse.”

The werecougar had the confidence to give her words weight. Malatest looked away, pretending to brush a wrinkle from his sleeve.

“I do far more than talk shows,” Errata added. “I make people pay attention to what matters.”

Izetta leaned on one hip, hands loose at her sides, ready to fight. This would either be a slam dunk or a bloodbath, and Izetta wasn’t an optimist. The uncomfortable pause lasted until Devries rolled his eyes to the ceiling, visibly giving in.

“Why is it that cats always think they’re in charge?”

CHAPTER 16

Sleep was a blessed oblivion—until it wasn’t.

The ability to nap anywhere, anytime, was a survival skill Rafe had learned early in his career with the Silent Wolves. Rest was never guaranteed during an assignment, so he grabbed sleep when he could to stay in top physical and mental shape.

That was until he’d been taken captive during the extraction of a valued asset in Eastern Europe. His captors had been rusalki—beautiful water spirits who had gone to the other side of the war. Then the nightmares had begun, night after night, dreams of drowning in a net made from the maidens’ sea-green hair. There was no wrestling with the creatures who dissolved at his touch. He might as well have tried to grapple a wave. Cold, dark water pressed in, robbing sound and sight, and choking every breath until his lungs burned for air. He’d wake up gasping, the pain too great to move. As a means to break his spirit, it had been an effective technique.

He’d killed three and escaped. It was only later that he learned he’d been captive for only two weeks. It had felt like months, and he hadn’t been able to sleep in a locked room since. The way station, with its graveyard and its cells, brought the dreams back with the force of a speeding truck.

Rafe lay awake, fully clothed and staring at the ceiling. The Silent Wolf shrink had claimed the dreams wouldn’t bother him unless they resonated with his psyche. The boundaries he’d put on himself. His isolation from the pack. His reluctance to share emotions. That self-repression was a means to cover up his guilt for disappointing his father, and his subconscious turned that guilt into strangling locks of hair.

Maybe some of that was true, maybe it wasn’t. Self-actualization took a back seat when job number one was staying alive, and survival was all about discipline and training. He knew how to be invisible, gather information, and cover his tracks. If he dropped a body on the way to the exit, he was quick and quiet. A Silent Wolf had no room for feelings. Maybe that’s why he took the riskiest assignments. They kept him too busy to think. Or hope. Or sleep, for that matter.

A faint scent teased him, one he’d noticed in the clearing where his kin lay buried. It was the animal stink of fear, as if the wolves had been helpless and aware right up until the killing blow. The stench of despair had followed him to this cell like a ghost. Or a warning?

Where was Izetta? If she was still among the Undead, she would have reached town. If she hadn’t …

He sprang to his feet, pulse thrumming, at the now-familiar beep and clatter of the door release. Lila stood at the entrance. The memory of their kiss rose like an exotic butterfly, lovely and utterly out of place.

A sudden warmth in his chest betrayed every hard lesson he’d endured. Discipline demanded that he shouldn’t be glad to see her. Wolf and fae didn’t mix. He knew that, and yet his body and soul disagreed.

“Come,” she said, her voice flat with weariness. “There is much to do before Lord Farras arrives tonight.”

Even without the benefit of windows, Rafe’s internal clock said it was dawn. For a fae, it was the middle of the night. “You should be sleeping.”

“Like I said, there is much to do.” She stood back, indicating the hallway beyond.

Rafe paused only to pull on his boots. Wordlessly, Lila turned and led the way to the stairs, her usually straight posture ever so slightly wilted. Her light-blonde hair was carelessly braided, as if she’d left her chambers in a hurry. Fae were pathologically careful of their appearance—worse than any cat.

“Is something wrong?” he asked. He couldn’t decide if he was genuinely concerned or looking for an opportunity he could exploit. Maybe because he was confused, the question came out with a hint of sarcasm.

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