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  An hour later, I owned more cat toys, treats, and supplies than a crazy cat lady. The clerk at the store had talked me into a lot of extras, like flea dip (very necessary) and a skull-and-crossbones cat collar.

  “Satan—I’m home.” Balancing my burdens, I kicked the door shut with my heel and turned to face the living room.

  “Holy shit!” The plastic cat crate dropped to the ground with a clatter. In its wake, the room felt ominously silent.

  Satan sat in the middle of the room, watching me with unblinking eyes. The two-foot radius around its body looked normal. However, the rest of the room looked like the aftermath of the explosion of a shit bomb.

  “Oh, gods!” Apparently, the Spam hadn’t been my best idea.

  In addition to the streaks of cat diarrhea all over every surface, including a few walls, Satan had taken his angst out on my sofa. The cushions were torn open and cotton batting and foam spilled out like entrails.

  I let the remaining bags slid to the ground next to my feet. I only had half an hour before Slade was scheduled to pick me up. “I hate you so much right now,” I said to the cat. It leaned back on its hip and slowly began licking at its nether region.

  With a sigh, I went to the kitchen to look for rubber gloves, a bucket, cleaning solution, and paper towels. I grumbled to myself as I gathered the items and tried to decide whether I’d stuff and mount the cat after I killed it or if I’d simply leave its carcass on the porch to ward off any other demon cats who considered playing on my sympathies.

  Twenty minutes later, I’d managed to clean up the worst of the mess. The process had involved some gagging and lots of cursing while Satan sat by and watched me. After I placed the garbage bags full of batting and paper towels out by the curb, I ran back inside for another shower.

  I’d just managed to pull on my boots when the car horn honked at the curb. I came out of my bedroom to find Satan curled up in the remains of my sofa. “You and I are gonna have words when I get back,” I said. The cat peeked open one eye, but didn’t look at all worried.

  I grabbed my keys, my gun, and my jacket on my way to the door. Opening the door, I stepped out onto the porch. But before I could shut it behind me, an orange furball streak past me. It jetted of the porch with a yowl that sounded suspiciously like a “fuck you” and disappeared into the woods surrounding my house. “Ungrateful asshole,” I muttered.

  Slade leaned against a black van at the curb. Judging from the frown on his face, he’d seen the cat’s escape. “What the hell was that?”

  “Unwelcome houseguest,” I said.

  He looked like he had other questions, but let them drop. “You ready?”

  I climbed in and waiting for him to do the same before I asked about the molester-style van. “What happened to the Karmann Ghia?”

  He shrugged. “This has better storage.” He jerked his head toward the back. I looked over my shoulder and my eyes widened at the treasure trove of weaponry. He’d installed racks filled with guns, knives, crossbows, and various other implements of death. Along the opposite wall, a low bench featured manacles instead of seatbelts. Red shag carpet completed the dungeon-on-wheels look.

  “Nice carpet,” I said.

  He turned the key and the engine roared to life. “Hides the blood.”

  An hour later, we pulled up in front of Zeke’s house in Glendale. Calling it a dump would have been generous. It looked like someone dropped a cinder block and then stuck a door and a couple windows on it. Although, the weeds, beer cans, and cigarette butts added a certain charm to the landscaping.

  “Looks like peddling porn doesn’t pay as much as I thought,” Slade said.

  “Yeah, extortion is much more lucrative,” I replied, scanning the dark windows for signs of life. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

  “Let me grab some party favors, just in case,” Slade said. He ducked back into the cargo area. He opened his leather blazer and started filling interior pockets with assorted stabby things.

  Let me just say, nothing is sexier than watching a male strap on weapons. Slade was no exception. For an ass, he had a certain alpha-male sexiness going for him. But I knew better than to entertain those thoughts for very long. I needed to keep my mind on the mission. So, I took my eyes off his physique and focused on his weapons. That’s when I noticed he didn’t bother grabbing any guns.

  “No firearms?” I asked, checking the chamber of my own.

  He paused. “Never use ’em.” He pulled up the leg of his bell-bottoms and strapped a nylon sheath around his ankle. Into that went three wooden spikes.

  “Why not?”

  He paused, as if considering the matter for the first time. Finally, he shrugged. “Just don’t like guns.”

  “Oh, I get it,” I said. “You’re old.”

  He laughed. “I’m only sixty, Sabina. Hardly old by vampire standards.”

  “You’re joking. Sixty?”

  He shook his head and grabbed a few throwing stars made of applewood from the shelf. Judging by the smirk on his face, I’d managed to amuse him. As much as I didn’t like being the source of anyone’s amusement, I had to look at him with grudging respect. To have accomplished so much as an assassin at such a young age was mind-blowing.

  “Ready?” he said, breaking into my thoughts. I nodded and cocked my gun. I might want to learn from Slade, but I drew the line at giving up my weapon.

  We went in through the back door. In his haste to leave, Zeke must have forgotten to lock it. I shook my head at the oversight. For someone who’d managed to elude us this long, Zeke sure was an idiot.

  The kitchen stunk like rotting trash and spoiled food. Even in the dark, I could see the dishes piled up in the sink and the mountain of pizza boxes stacked next to the overflowing trash can. Spatters of food crusted the harvest yellow fridge and the avocado green counters.

  Two doors led off the kitchen to other rooms in the house. Slade pointed to the right, indicating we should split up. I nodded and went through the breakfast area.

  The only signs of life from my perspective were cockroaches crawling over forgotten cereal bowls and glasses coated with dried blood. Zeke, in addition to being a pain in my ass, also appeared to be the biggest slob I’d ever encountered.

  I moved silently to the corner leading into the living room. When no sounds came from the room beyond, I slowly turned the corner with my gun ready to shoot anything that moved. Maybe I was being paranoid, but carelessness didn’t pay the bills. More than one Enforcer had gotten dead by being cocky.

  This room was decorated in bachelor chic. Posters of a scantily clad Farrah Fawcett-Majors and the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders lined the walls. The furnishings consisted of a battered orange Barcalounger parked in front of a TV the size of a Volkswagen. I moved through the room quickly and headed toward the back hallway, which I assumed led to the bedrooms.

  Through the doorway, I encountered a linen closet filled with Hustler magazines and ratty towels. A sound to my left had me swinging my gun around. Slade held up his hands and stopped. I blew out a breath and lowered the gun a fraction.

  “Anything?” I whispered.

  He shook his head. “All clear. You check that last room?”

  A closed door waited on our right, which presumably led to a guest room or office. I shook my head and moved toward it. Slade had my back. Not that it made me feel any better. Despite his obvious experience in the field, his presence unsettled me. I was used to working alone, and adding a partner to the mix brought in all sorts of variables I couldn’t control.

  Still, I sucked in some air and turned the knob. When no one rushed me or shot me in the face, I let out my breath and walked in. Slade clicked on a flashlight behind me and shined it into the stuffy room. Dust particles glittered in the beam while my eyes adjusted. Once they focused again, I made out a utilitarian metal desk pushed up against the far wall. Confident we were alone in the house, I walked over and clicked on the desk lamp.

  I busied myself openin
g desk drawers, rooting around for any clue of Zeke’s whereabouts. All I got for my effort were a few back issues of Playboy, gummy rubber bands, and a matchbook.

  “Um, Sabina?”

  I pocketed the matchbook, and looked over my shoulder to see what had Slade sounding spooked. He had his back to me, his gaze intent on the wall.

  At first, I thought more beer posters plastered the wall. But when I turned around to get a better look, my mouth dropped open. The same collage used as a backdrop in the video covered the wall.

  Zeke had crafted his very own serial killer-esque objet d’art out of newspaper clippings, photographs, bits of string, and what appeared to be bloody handprints. “Godsdamn, that’s creepy.”

  I moved closer, careful not to touch anything. Zeke had been a busy boy. Upon closer inspection, I realized the pictures and clippings all served to prove the existence of vampires. From shots of vamps sucking on the necks of victims to headlines about unexplained murders, he had enough evidence to convince even those most doubtful mortal that the stuff of their nightmares not only existed but walked down the same streets and ate at the same restaurants as the Sons of Adam.

  “He wasn’t bluffing,” Slade said quietly. “He really intends to expose us to the mortals.”

  I backed away from the scent of dried blood and newsprint ink. “Do you have a camera in that van of yours?”

  Slade opened his mouth to answer but stilled when a loud crash echoed through the apartment. The sound came from the other end of the house, probably the kitchen. I grabbed my gun and went to turn off the light. The room fell into darkness. Something about darkness always amplifies sounds. And this was no different. My breath sounded harsh to my ears as I listened to footsteps advancing through the house.

  I glanced at Slade. He held a finger to his lips and went to stand with his back against the wall next to the door. I took point in the corner, diagonal to the doorway, ready to shoot first and ask questions later.

  Floorboards creaked in the living room. Amateur, I thought. Or someone who wasn’t expecting two vampires to be waiting for them. I crouched down in the shadows, giving myself the advantage of being able to see the intruder before they saw me.

  The darkness in the hall shifted. I aimed the gun directly at the silhouette, tracking the figure. Finally, the shadow crossed the threshold and stopped.

  “Stop right there.” Slade’s calm voice sounded unnaturally loud in the dark.

  The intruder panicked, squeezing the trigger of the gun in his hand. Three more panic shots followed in quick succession. I covered my head with my hands as a shot zinged past my ear. “Godsdammit!”

  “Stop!” Slade yelled. A scuffle sounded from the doorway. A female gasp followed by a male grunt.

  I dove for the lamp on the desk. Light spilled through the room just in time for me to catch Mischa Petrov kneeing Slade between the legs. Gods love him, he held his ground, knocking the gun from her hand.

  “Mischa, stop!” I yelled.

  But she wasn’t done fighting. The idiot was so pumped up on adrenaline, she wasn’t thinking.

  “You scared the shit out of me!” she yelled at Slade, swiping at him and hissing like a feral cat. She was even dressed like Catwoman in her one-piece black jumpsuit, which left little to the imagination.

  I grabbed her arms and tore her away from Slade. She panted like an injured animal, ready to strike again. Blood covered Slade’s lower lip, and two deep scratch marks bled freely next to his eye. Seeing the needless injuries, something snapped. I could understand why she shot without looking, but her disgraceful display of fear after the fact disgusted me.

  “What the fuck were you thinking? You could have killed us!” I yelled. She jerked away and rounded on me.

  “Me?” she spat. “You two were skulking in the shadows like a couple of thieves.”

  “I told you to stop.” Slade said it in the same tone one might use to share the time. His complete lack of anger impressed me. Sure, he was probably pissed on the inside. But outside? Total control. That was the sign of a real professional. Unlike some bitches I could mention.

  Mischa seemed to have collected some of her composure. She smoothed her palms over her ruby-red Crystal Gayle hair, which, in my opinion, was completely ridiculous for an assassin. Now that she’s gotten control of herself, she transformed back into her typical dragon lady persona. “Sorry, Slade. If I’d known it was you, I never would have fired.” She smiled at him in a way that reminded me of a lion eyeing a particularly plump gazelle.

  “Your lack of control makes you a danger to both yourself and anyone working with you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Fuck you, Slade.”

  “I’d rather gnaw off my own arm, thanks.”

  I didn’t bother to cover my grin. “Looks like you’ve lost one of your admirers, Mischa.”

  She turned on me, practically spitting venom. “Shut up, mixed-blood. No one asked for your opinion.”

  I clenched my teeth and glared at her, refusing to let her get the best of my temper. I turned to Slade. “Can we go now?”

  Slade shook his head. “Not until Mischa explains what she’s doing here.”

  Mischa crossed her arms. “I’m looking for Zeke.”

  Slade’s eyes narrowed. “This is my hit, Mischa. Back the fuck off.”

  “What are you talking about? The Dominae assigned me to this case.”

  “Bullshit.”

  She smiled, showing a flash of fang. “Guess they figured you’d be handicapped with the half-breed.” She sent a venomous glance my way. “Face it, Slade. With her slowing you down, it’ll be a miracle if you win this one.”

  I was still stewing when Slade started the van. After Mischa’s insults, he had to physically remove me from Zeke’s house. Lucky for her he had, because I’d been about two seconds from going Three Mile Island on her ass.

  If Slade felt angry about the fact the Dominae brought Mischa in as insurance, he wasn’t showing it.

  “Stop sulking,” Slade said. “If you let her get a rise out you, she’ll win every time.”

  “I’m not sulking,” I lied. “I was strategizing.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he said. “Do you always pout when you strategize?”

  That was it. Between Satan’s dramatic departure and Mischa’s poisonous words, I’d been insulted enough for one night. I turned to Slade with a glare. “You know what? I don’t think this partnership’s going to work out for me after all.”

  He didn’t seem impressed by my declaration. “Oh, I see.” He nodded, as if he’d just had a revelation. “You’re giving up.”

  “No, I’m not. I just prefer to work alone.”

  Slade sighed. “That’s not an option and you know it. Until I give the Dominae the all clear on you, you’re not allowed to pursue perps on your own.”

  I rammed my fist into the dashboard. He was right, but I didn’t like it. I’d worked my ass off in assassin school and paid my dues for close to a decade to get this chance. Having to shadow an arrogant ass was insult added to injury.

  “You’re going to pay for that,” Slade said calmly, looking at the dent I’d left in the dashboard.

  “Fuck off.” Anger and shame warred for supremacy in my gut. Anger because I was sick and tired of being underestimated. Shame because I was having a tantrum in front of an assassin of Slade’s caliber.

  “Sabina?” he said quietly.

  I whipped toward him. “What?”

  “Where should we go next?”

  I stopped cold. “What?”

  “Which word didn’t you understand?” he said, brow furrowing.

  I blew out a breath, feeling like an ass for my display of temper. “No. What I meant was, are you sure you still want to work with me?”

  He frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  I crossed my arms, hating him a little bit for making me spell it out. “Well, for one, not many vampires would choose a mixed-blood for a partner. And the Dominae obviously think I’m a fuckup
, so I can’t imagine why you’d bother.”

  He laughed at me. I narrowed my eyes, not understanding how anything I’d said was funny. “Grow up, little girl. This isn’t about you and your pride. It’s about the job.” He paused and looked me in the eye. “You want to be a good assassin?”

  I assumed the question was rhetorical, so I didn’t answer at first. But he remained silent for so long, it became apparent he expected an answer. I lifted my chin. “I don’t want to be good. I want to be the best.”

  He bobbed his head, obviously approving of the answer. “You’ll never be the best if you allow your feelings to get in the way of the job. So, suck it up, sweetheart. Kill Zeke, collect the reward, and move on. Self-pity has no place in our line of work.”

  On the outside, I probably looked at stubborn as ever. My arms stayed crossed, my chin stayed raised, and my eyes stayed narrowed. But on the inside, his words washed through me like ice water. It wasn’t easy to accept that my emotions had been getting the best of me. But he was right. The longer I let my grandmother’s underestimation of my abilities hurt me, the longer it would take for me to earn her respect. Females like Lavinia Kane didn’t respect whiners. They respected doers—like Slade.

  “Besides,” Slade continued. “Do you really want to let Mischa win?”

  At that moment, something shifted inside me. Fighting against the prejudices I faced was a waste of time. From now on, I’d focus on being the best assassin I could be. I’d start by working with Slade and learning everything I could from him. And lesson number one was most definitely learned.

  “Our next stop is an estate called Faerywood. It’s in Hollywood Hills off Mulholland Drive.”

  The corner of Slade’s mouth lifted, and he nodded approvingly. “Yes, ma’am.”