Page 3 of Soulmates
I relax into the seat, considering Jacques’s words.Usually his “situations” mean I have to kill somebody, so this is unexpected. The dark mood I’ve been wrapped in has a strong opinion. I should refuse him. I should hide. I should go back home and lock the door and go through with the dare from this afternoon.
But…
Jacques has other scions, other vampires who owe him life.Hell,he could hire one ofthe Securitas, the supernatural version of the FBI and the CIA combined.Yetdespite his options, Jacqueschose me to deal with a potentially tricky situation. Somewhere in the tortured landscape of my mind, a tiny light flickers tolife.Nothing as bold as curiosity or pride or hope, but some nascent forerunner of those emotions.Fighting through thedarkness, I meet Jacques’s frigid gaze.
“Keep in mind that if anything happens to the Alpha’s son, the consequence would be dire,” he says. “Do your best not to start a war.”
OXO
Four nights later, I stand near the baggage claim at LAX holding a small sign with the name David Collins on it.I’m not happy about being here, though this assignment has made stepping into the sun less of a priority.
I’ve beenwaiting a couple of hoursbecauseDavid’seight p.m. flight from Seattle was delayed. Now it’s after midnight and traffic down the escalator picks up, as if a large flight has landed, so I expect to see him.
Not that I really know who I’m looking for. Jacques emailed me a bio and a picture of Randolph Collins, one I recognize from just about every news story involving werewolves. Collins Senior is short and stocky, with thick dark hair and a face that wouldn’t have to shift very far to form a muzzle. Even in a copy of a black-and-whilephotograph,though, his eyes glare with a fierceness I’d be just as happy avoiding in real life.
The picture of David Collins shows a young man no taller than his father, butmaybesixty pounds lighter. David’s hair is shoulder lengthandhe’s clean-shaven, at least in the photo. Other than that, he’d masked himself with an artfully wrapped knit scarf and a pair of sunglasses. He won’t be all covered up in LA, though judging by his winter apparel, I’m looking for an effete hipster with his father’s glare.
And he’ll smell like awolf,which will be a dead giveaway.
There’s a gap in the escalator crowd. The next person to glide into sight turns heads with the kind of energy that often draws a pack of paparazzi. He—my best guess ishe—is wearing skintight jeans and an open mesh shirt that pretty much makes his gender obvious. His hair is blond and starched into a high curving wave rising from his forehead. He’s wearing wrap-around shades, plum lipstick, and high-heeled black pumps, and over it all, he’s tossed a glossy fur coat.
Near the bottom of the escalator, he gives a little jump, then fishes a phone out of somewhere. I’m not really watching, but he’s by far the most interesting person in the area. His fingers fly over thescreenand his mouth workslike he wantsto chew somebody out.Pocketinghis phone, he surveys the baggage claim area, then strides across the space in my general direction.
I don’t want to make it obvious I’m staring, so I ignore him, checking out the escalator for signs of David Collins.
“You aresonot serious.”
The words catch me off guard, but not as bad as finding the man in the fur coat standing right in front of me. I inhale. Yep. Wolf. “Are you David?”
“Yes dear, and who are you? AlPacino’s grandson?” He cocks one hip and plants his knuckles on his waist.“Got you a pimp ringonand everything.”
Maybe I should have left the nugget at home.I look him up and down, meeting his attitude with a little rudeness of my own. “You aren’t what I was expecting either.”
He has to tilt his head to meet my gaze. Even in his heels, he can’t be five feet eight inches, give or take, and I stand a little over six feet.
“So Dad said you’d be driving me around.”
“Chauffeur, bodyguard”—I give him another once-over, this time with a smirk—“babysitter.”
He snorts. “Well, let’s go, sunshine. I need a cigarette.”
I don’t move. “You can’t smoke in my car.”
“Listen.” He covers the space between us in two long, swinging steps. “Between Alaska Airlines and the Seattle weather, it’s taken me well over eight hours to make a three-hour flight.”He pokes me in the chest with the tip of his blunt, decidedly unfeminine index finger. “I need a cigarette and a shot of scotch and a blow job, not necessarily in that order. I’m putting up with having a chauffeur because I hate driving in traffic and it’ll keep my dad off my ass.” He taps me once, hard, and I grab his wrist.
“But I don’t need a bodyguard.” He wrenches his hand free of my grasp. “And I absolutelydo notneed a babysitter.”
With that, he turns and stalks off, the defiant swivel in his hips giving me the first real smile I’ve had in weeks,maybelonger. I still don’t move. If he gets much past the baggage carousel, I’ll track him. He isn’t leaving the airport withoutme,because Jacques had one thing right. This kid is going to be trouble.
ChapterTwo
IT TAKES ALL of half an hour to begin debating whether I should kill the bastard myself.
“Here. You can carry these.” He drags two oversized suitcases from thebaggagecarousel. “Maybeyou should get a cart, because, you know, we don’t want to make it too obvious.”
I swallow down a mass of irritation. “What?”
“Um, vampire, right? Although you barely talk, somaybeyou’re a revenant or something. Here, take this, too.” He tosses me his coat and stands with his arms crossed, twisting his full, plum-colored lips into a sneer.
