Page 33 of Touch of Evil

“Uh, huh,” I say, wishing we couldn’t.

Emme pauses. “You know what it is, don’t you?” she asks. I nod. She searches her surroundings. “Does this mean you know what this place is, too?”

“I have a pretty good idea,” I say, and that’s about it.

She gives another little tremble. “Aren’t you going to tell me?”

“Ah, sure.”

She stands there, waiting.

I stand there with my mouth firmly shut.

Emme is an angel. Innocent. Genuinely one of those types that believes in the good in others. She avoids the bad, all the time, just because she wants to see so much of that good.

I’m not one of those glass is half-full types. The glass is usually empty and bloody from the bastard that made me crack said glass over his skull.

It’s safe to say I’m definitely not Emme. Nope. That doesn’t mean I’m ready to come clean with the facts.

“Bren?” she says. “We’re here to find answers.” She shudders when another something lands on her head. It falls to the sand and scuttles away. “Just tell me what it is. Please. I’m not sure how much longer I can stay in this place.”

“You don’t want to know,” I assure her.

“I do if it means finding out what’s going on,” she insists.

“Just tell me,” she adds when I just look at her.

I give one last sniff. Yup. That’s what it is. “It’s a cat house, Emme. And I don’t mean the type Celia would hang out in.”

It’s like I’m watching the innocence flow right out of her.

Her mouth pops open and closes several times.

“You…this?” she stammers. She looks from the ground, to the ceiling, to her hands and turns what might be the cutest shade of green I’ve ever seen on a gal. “Why are you like this?”

I look around, like she can’t be possibly talking to me. “Why am I like what?”

She stamps her little foot and shoves her hands on her hips. “Males. I mean males. This is disgusting, Bren.”

My wolf agrees, still, I hold my ground, growing defensive. “Don’t blame me. It’s not my spunk spraying the walls and ceiling—”

She gasps. “Oh, my God. It’s on the ceiling?”

“I’m exaggerating.” I glance up, hoping that it’s just some kind of freak oil stain blurring the ceiling. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” she asks.

And there’s that adorable shade of green again.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she grumbles.

I turn my head when the breeze filters through the cave and I pick up on something else.

The walls splinter, and the mounds of stone shift as something crawls beneath. “Em, we’re not alone.”

She turns, watching the thing snake beneath the rocks. I step forward to stay in front of her, my knuckles cracking as I tighten my fists.

“Bren,” she says. “No way is it human.”

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