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“Rio. ” She forced the kitten into my hands, so I was holding it as well as my shoes. “I named her that for you!”

“Because of my deep-rooted love of Brazil?”

She looked at me like I was retarded. “Uh. No. From that song. By that band. Oh, you know. ”

“Clearly I don’t. ”

“You know. ” She searched her memory. “Depeche Mode! The song about the wolves. ” She winked at me. “Because you loooove wolves. ”

I was appalled by both her cavalier reference to my werewolf consorts and her flagrant disregard for eighties pop culture.

“Duran Duran,” I sighed.

“Hmm. I know all your boyfriends had names that started with a D, but wasn’t the cute brunet called Desmond?”

I set the cat on the yellow loveseat and placed my shoes on the mantle above my fireplace. “Duran Duran is a band. They did sing a song called ‘Rio’, but the song about wolves was ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’, and it was more of a metaphor than an anthem. ” I plopped down on my overstuffed, oversize armchair and stared at the ceiling, trying to will myself back to Elmwood.

“Oh. ” She adjusted her towel. “Well, we can’t really call her that. ”

The cat was staring at me. This was all a little too much for me to handle so soon after getting back. I kicked off my flip-flops, then stood back up and grabbed the Louboutins, stepping into them and enjoying my new height.

Ignoring Brigit’s inquiring stare, I picked up a small purse from the floor, then took the only two things I needed off the table next to the door.

A gun and my keycard for Rain Hotel.

Chapter Seven

I caught a cab a few blocks away from home, and in those short blocks I was already reconsidering my plan. Admittedly, I was chickening out on seeing Lucas. We hadn’t left our relationship on the best footing when I ran away. First, there was the small problem of me also being connected to Desmond and the teeny-tiny issue of me having slept with him. Then there was the real problem—they both now knew I was part vampire, and Lucas had made a huge sacrifice to save my life when he shared his blood with me.

We hadn’t had time to discuss the ramifications of that particular revelation. I’d needed to heal, and then I’d needed a lot of time to clear my head. All of this was time spent apart from them. The wolf king was a patient man, but he was probably having to field a lot of questions at home about what had become of his Southern wolf princess.

The pack within New York was small, only twenty-four wolves. Twenty-four people were not likely to forget their leader telling them he had met his mate.

I sighed.

“Lady, this ain’t a sitting room. Where you wanna go?”

If the cab were a sitting room, it would have been one in a sauna. There was no air conditioning, and the bitter tang of sweat was rolling off the potbellied, wifebeater-clad cab driver. If it was still legal to smoke in taxis, I was willing to bet he’d have a cigar dangling from his meaty lips. His singular eyebrow was dipped in a scowl in the rearview mirror.

I was about to say SoHo, but it came out as a sibilant breath. No. I wasn’t ready, not yet. He must have seen the slight head shake, because he coughed with a phlegmy rattle and spit something out his open window. A cyclist cursed and the cabby snarled at him.

“Lady. ” He drew out the word, emphasizing his impatience.

I gave him an address in the West Village, northwest of Rain Hotel, and he put the car in drive before I listed the cross street. As we drove, I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and dialed a number I almost never had cause to use.

“Miss me so soon?”

“Sig,” I said, no friendliness in my tone. “We need to talk about Brigit. ”

“Yes?” As if he had no idea what I meant.

“She needs to go. ”

“She is your charge. ”

“I never had to live with my warden. ”

There was a long pause. I hadn’t mentioned Holden by name, but it hung unsaid in the air.


Tags: Sierra Dean Secret McQueen Paranormal