Glancing around, Sahvage had the sense that the building was surrounded. Shadows? he wondered. No . . . he could catch the scents, even though they were distant and distilled by the cold wind, and he recognized a lot of them.

“Your backups are in position,” he said. “I know we aren’t alone.”

“Just as we agreed, they’re on the perimeter and staying put unless things get fucked. I don’t want . . . well, like I told you, last night she came as soon as I got close to the Book.”

“Just point me in the right direction, I’ll take it from there.”

The male narrowed his eyes. “That wasn’t our agreement.”

“Even if it keeps you from getting killed?”

“She wants the Book, not us. So if I wake up dead, it’s going to be because I’m collateral damage. The same is true for you. We do this as we agreed or not at all.”

Sahvage met the fighter straight in the eye. “Roger that.”

As Balthazar turned away, Sahvage followed the male over to the entry to the stairwell that ran up the middle of the building. Inside, they descended the concrete steps at a jog, and when, a couple landings down, Balthazar paused at a fire door and seemed to be scenting the seam around the doorjamb, Sahvage realized something.

“You didn’t make a sound,” he said softly.

The Bastard glanced over his shoulder. “Huh?”

“As we went along. You didn’t make any noise.”

“I’m a thief.” The guy rolled his eyes and punched the handle to open things up. “You think I should have a marching band plugged into my ass?”

“Now there’s a Christmas card.”

Out in a corridor that smelled like rich people, and had a sleek, contemporary vibe, they strode forth quickly, and Sahvage tried to take a page out of Mr. Shhh’s book. But how did the fucker manage to not even have his equipment creak?

It was obvious where they were going.

The police tape gave it away.

As they came up to the door, Balthazar looked back. “Open foyer on the other side. I’m praying there’s no police equipment in the way. I’ll disarm the alarm and take us through the collection rooms.”

“I’m right behind you.”

Balthazar went in first, and Sahvage was a nanosecond behind him. No police equipment, just an open foyer as described, like the place was a museum.

“This way,” the Bastard whispered. “It’s down here.”

The rooms were small and windowless, and contained collections of strange things. Surgical instruments. Bat skeletons? And then—

Sahvage’s breath exploded out of his lungs as they entered a space filled with book displays—and his boots froze where they were. There, across the intricate floor, past a ruined section of shelving and a mess on the hardwood . . . was a clear box.

That housed an object Sahvage hadn’t seen for two hundred years.

As he blinked, he was back in Zxysis’s master quarters, the blood of his innocent cousin spilled on the sheeting of the bedding platform, the window open, the herbs and potions and candle wax over on the trestle table.

He had a feeling that the Bastard was talking to him.

But once again, the male wasn’t making any sound at all.

Sahvage approached the display on numb legs, and he could have sworn, as he came to a halt before the ancient volume, that the pages of the open tome ruffled as if in greeting. And he wasn’t the only one transfixed. Balthazar was next to him and staring at the Book with the same kind of captivation.

In fact, so enthralled were he and the other fighter . . . that they failed to note the blinking red light up at the motion detector on the ceiling.

It’s the alarm.”

As Mrs. Cambourg stood up from the sofa with her phone in her hand, Erika was already on it, not just going vertical, but putting her hand on her holstered service weapon.

“Someone’s on the second floor.” The woman turned her cell’s screen around. “What do I—”

“It’s probably just one of the crime scene techs.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Or at least that was what Erika was hoping, and if it was? She was going to dress down whoever hadn’t checked in properly.

“I want you to lock yourself in and stay up here,” she said. “I’m going to go down and check.”

“But is it safe?” the woman asked as she cradled the phone to her chest.

“I’ll be right back. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

“Okay.” Mrs. Cambourg pointed to an archway. “You want to go through that corridor and take the stairwell down a level. Should I be calling someone?”

“I’ll handle it. Don’t worry. Just stay up here.”

As Erika strode off down the hall, there was a series of soft shifting sounds in her wake. When she glanced back, the archway area was being closed off with a matte gold panel.

Good. That meant she didn’t have to worry about anyone else.

Besides, it probably was just an investigator who had failed to check in properly.

The staircase curved around, modern art glowing on the walls. There was one painting she particularly liked, but it wasn’t as if she was going to waste time checking out the chromatics of the damn thing.

Like she knew anything about art anyway.

But she sure as shit knew how to protect herself.

When she came to the bottom of the stairs, at the triplex’s second floor, she unholstered her service weapon, but kept it at her side. The last thing anyone needed was her blowing a colleague out of the water. At the same time, shit was getting weird in Caldwell, so she wasn’t taking chances with her own life.

All of the bodies that she’d seen with missing hearts were what was on her mind as she rounded a corner and saw, through a couple of rooms, a pair of men standing over the Lucite display box in the book room. They were . . . enormous. Dressed in black. Looking like they were capable of handling themselves in any situation.

So yeah, definitely not investigators.

They turned around at the same time.

Erika’s training dictated that she was supposed to make both of them; take a mental snapshot of their features that she could use later for ID purposes. And she also needed to put in motion the backup protocol.

Instead, she stared at the one on the left. He was . . . the man from the footage from the trailer, the thief who had brought the watches there . . . the one who Mrs. Cambourg believed she had dreamed about. And God, he was still impossibly beautiful, if you could use that word on anything so masculine: His face was all perfect angles and jawline, and his eyes, as they narrowed and swept her up and down, were both cunning and . . .

“I’m almost not surprised you’re here,” she heard herself say. “You seem to spend a lot of time in this place.”

As she spoke, he tilted his head—in a way that reminded her of a German shepherd, a predator who was curious about how fast his prey might be able to run.

“Detective Saunders, CPD.” Erika pointed her gun at him and took her cuffs out. “I’m going to ask you both to put your hands on your heads and turn around. You’re under arrest for trespassing—but something tells me the charges are not going to stop there.”