Then again, maybe it was because of how things were going in her own life. Fuck knew she was close to cracking open.

“Misery loves company,” she muttered as her earpiece continued to burble with reports.

Blasphemy was a new club, part of Trez Latimer’s portfolio of emporiums that served up all kinds of legal and maaaaybe-not-so-legal products for consumption. He owned four now, and each had a different vibe. This one, in spite of its name, did not have an anti-religious theme, although it was painted black and red, and there were a lot of Gothic details. The clientele was very steampunk, which by her taste, was sooo much better than the Botoxed, lip-injected glamour bullshit.

But no one asked her.

Just as well.

Her eyes did their scan-thing automatically, her instincts weeding through the crowd on the dance floor, at the bar, down in the back by the bathrooms, ever searching for blowups about to happen, and drugs that were being done too obviously, and actual penetration being engaged in.

You could snog all you want. But you couldn’t—

“Alex?”

At the sound of the male voice, she turned her head. T’Marcus Jones was a human who was built like a heavyweight boxer, and even though he was a new hire, it was not hard to respect the crap out of him. He was level-headed, nonreactive, and he had enough muscle on him that, if he had to engage, he was going to win. Even if shit went to a ground game.

Oh, and Alex Hess was the human name she’d always used around Caldwell.

“What’s up?” she said.

“We’ve got a guy smoking in the back hall.” T’Marcus nodded toward the bathrooms. “I went down and asked him to leave—”

The human man winced and rubbed his forehead like his frontal lobe had been stabbed with an ice pick.

“It’s okay,” she told him. “You take my station. I’ll deal with it.”

T’Marcus pegged her with a hard eye. “I don’t let you down. I don’t—”

“I know. You’re fine.”

She left him to be in charge of the floor—testament to how much she already trusted the man—and proceeded down to the corridor in question. Passing the woman’s bathroom, her keen ears picked up on a whole lot of moaning. The men’s bathroom, on the other side, was quiet, and not likely to stay that way.

The shallow hall hung a louie, but she smelled the Turkish tobacco even before she came to the corner.

And somehow, even though she knew who it was, it was still an uncomfortable shock to see Vishous way down by the emergency exit. The Brother was in a lean, one shitkicker planted against the wall, his leather-clad body strung like a powerful bow.

“You know,” she said as she walked up to him, “there are laws.”

V’s icy diamond eyes shifted over to her and he stroked his goatee with his black-gloved hand. “Are there? Tell me everything.”

“In the state of New York, you’re not allowed to smoke in public places—”

He gestured his hand-rolled forward. “This bothering you?”

“No.”

“Then that’s the only law I’m following. New York State can go fuck itself.”

“I’m not sure whether that’s anatomically possible. Given that it’s a piece of land.” Xhex planted herself across the way from him. “So what brings you here?”

“How’re ya.”

Not a question. But come on, like she was going to answer that truthfully. “Great. You?”

“I’m perfect.” He exhaled. “No, I think I’m better than that.”

“It’s good to know your ego remains unscathed.”

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd that was when he went silent. V just smoked and stared at the lit tip of what he’d rolled, likely right after First Meal, given the time.

“Spit it out,” she muttered. “And if this is some kind of hardass intervention, you’ll have better luck talking to an inanimate object.”

“Intervention? Nah. I’d be the last person to get in the way of self-destruction.”

She wasn’t so sure about that. Under his crunchy exterior … well, there was a straight-up killer, true. But he had his own set of loyalties, all of which were centered on the people in that mansion she lived in.

“So you just needed a place to smoke?” She motioned around. “There’s a big-ass city out there, full of park benches—”

“I dreamed of you,” he cut in harshly. “During the day.”

Xhex’s breath caught in her throat. “Oh, fucking hell.”

There were a whole host of things a person didn’t want to hear: Your mate is missing in the field. That limb is not going to grow back. Lassiter has the remote.

And right up there with that happy list? Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, telling you he’s had a dream with your name on it.

Just as she only tracked the addicts, the desperates, and the malcontents in the clubs, he only ever saw bad news. Very bad news.

In the future.

“What,” she gritted out. “Fucking tell me, whatever it is.”

It was a long while before the Brother answered—and his nearly white, navy-rimmed eyes shifted to her own before he spoke. As fear speared right into her chest, his one-word reply hit the airwaves—and she felt even worse.

“Wolven,” was all he said.

TWO DAYS LATER, on Sunday morning back in Walters, Lydia found the footsteps in the dirt outside her rental house.

The two-story, two-bedroom, one-and-a-half bath was barely more than a shotgun, even though the only things on either side of it were a shallow lawn and a whole lot of trees. Given the town it was in, it went without saying that her nearest neighbors were a quarter mile away and her driveway was a hundred yards long.

As she stepped out onto the porch, she had her running shoes on, her windbreaker zipped up, and her earbuds in. At ten a.m., the air was still and cold, and overhead, the sky was a clear, but weak, blue. The sunlight was warm on her face, however, and that felt good.

It also felt calming—which considering the gymnastics her brain had been going through since Friday night was exactly what she needed. Even if it was the kind of thing that didn’t last.

After she locked up, she stretched her calves on the stairs, and enjoyed contemplating, for a moment, the simple problem of choosing left or right when she got to the end of her driveway. Right would take her out along the rural road for about a half mile before she could cut into a trail and do some intervals on the mountain’s incline. With a left, she’d head into town, going by the post office, the supermarket/diner, and the bank, which would be closed. The decision seemed obvious as there was more traffic on the road—relatively speaking—but she didn’t want to go into the preserve.

She didn’t trust herself not to end up at the hotel site—

At first, she wasn’t sure what got her attention. But as she glanced around, she had the same sense she’d gotten when she’d been sure someone had moved something in her office.

Her out-of-place alarm was never wrong.

And that was when she saw the footprints going around the porch. The depressions in the damp earth were barely noticeable, but sunlight was as always the great revealer, the subtle shadows thrown by the indentations forming a pattern that was unmistakable.