Page 40 of For Dear Life

“At speed, therefore you ran.” He ignores me. “Who are your friends?”

“Piss off,” he says.

“How charming. Where’s Viggo tonight?”

The shifter looks down his long nose at me. “With his girls.”

“Girls?” I pull a face. “And don’t you have girls?”

“None of your fucking business, bitch.”

“Now, that’s rather rude,” I say lightly, all the time stalling the conversation to edge closer to the slashed guy.

“Get the hint and piss off. You killed one of us. Tried to set fire to me. Make the most of your freedom with your boys.” He jerks his chin at Leif. “And tell him to watch his back.”

“Such unnecessary aggression.” I nod at the guy pretending to drive a car around a pixelated screen, as a masculine voice from inside the machine shouts encouragement. The tense adrenaline runs from him—humans and shifters alike are easily entertained with inanity. “How did Rory’s wake go?” I ask.

Another shifter snaps his head around. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Always. Deadly. Why?” The pair glance at each other and the suede-headed guy grips the steering wheel tighter. “Am I to know something which I do not?”

The one I’m speaking to moves closer, trapping me between himself and the side of the seat. The smell of mint and testosterone wafts over me.

“Rory’s wake never happened,” he growls.

“Why?”

He glances at his other friend who’s standing, arms crossed. “You know why.”

“I’m not in the habit of asking questions if I already know the answer.” He glowers. “Why? Do you need to be told something a number of times before you understand?”

“Watch it,” he snarls.

“Please do enlighten me why Rory’s wake never happened.” My mind trips over a few theories: Another witch? The injured shifter? So many options. “Did something cause a postponement?”

The shifter’s attempt at a menacing glare intensifies. He’s evidently not planning to answer my question, so I casually slide into his mind.

Then reel.

Because there wasn’t a body anymore.

No Rory to bury.

The guy at the wheel smacks the machine hard and swears as the moving seat judders to a halt and I hold in my shock, about to dig inside his mind for more when the seated guy stands and knocks into me.

I stumble and he sneers, believing the force of his movement unsteadied me, but that isn’t why. This shifter whose injuries still show on his arm?

He’s the one I attacked.

Maxwell’s construct.

I’m between two of them now and not intimidated, but my mind continues to spin. I slice a look at a watchful Leif and shake my head. Stay away.

“Do not attempt to threaten me again,” I say icily. “You’re aware of my capabilities and that I don’t hold back.”

“Yeah? And cause trouble for yourself? You wouldn’t touch us,” says Park Shifter.

“Wrong. I can’t help myself.” I tap my lips. “My magic seems to automatically target assholes.”

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