Seal of Surrender (24 page)

The munchkin — at least six inches taller than Mira herself — rolled her eyes and fell into step. The curvaceous brunette clutched a steaming cup of chai between mitten-covered hands. “Damn, it's freezing out here.”

“Yeah. Tell me something I
don't
know.” Mira looked both ways before crossing against the light. She stopped on the opposite corner and waited, arms akimbo. “C'mon, Zoe. We're going to be late.”

Zoe pursed her lips and stepped into the lane. A taxi screeched to a halt inches from striking her and honked. Tea flew everywhere. Mira shook her head while Zoe bustled across the street, patted the front of her red wool coat with a napkin and scowled, the remains of her decimated cup landing in the nearby trashcan. “Remind me again why you're my best friend?”

Mira studied her, then locked arms with Zoe and took off toward the club. “Because, Zoe girl, you're all I've got.”

Once they arrived, Zoe slipped away into the kitchen with a wave. Mira shrugged out of her coat and scanned the clipboard work schedule to confirm her evening assignment. Security and …
Oh, Hell No! Not cover again. Second time this week, dammit, and tonight's open mike night too.
She'd be out there forever.

She complained to the buxom bartender polishing glasses. “Shit, Bebe. It's ten degrees outside. I'll be a human popsicle by the end of the night!”

Bebe ran an assessing look over Mira's outfit and returned to her barware. “Girl, you know they'd let you serve if you dressed up. Showed some skin.”

“Whatever.” Mira gave a dismissive wave, covertly eyeing Bebe's skin-tight shirt and painted-on denims. She could have shown some skin. Hell, she
had
shown some skin, before the attack, before her innocence was shredded by trusted hands, before she'd realized the hard truth of vulnerability. Her mind screeched to a halt. Snippet memories of sticky vinyl seats, groping invasions, and brutal violations bombarded her psyche. Eyes squeezed shut, Mira forced the memories back into containment. Bebe shrugged at Mira's silence and tossed her long blonde hair over a shoulder, shifting her attention when one of the male bouncers walked in. Mira took a deep breath and checked her watch. Showtime.

“I'm heading outside now,” she called and rewrapped her winter layers. Mira shoved her hair under the enormous hood and peeked out the entrance at the area set up for collecting cover. Dusk descended, and she still couldn't shake the uneasy feeling she was being stalked. The brisk wind churned and Mira failed to suppress a shiver. One of the bouncers brought out a stool and the cashbox and took up his position by the door. With a last glance at her surroundings, Mira climbed up on the tall seat and pulled her gloves on before the first partiers arrived.

• • •

Kagan reclined against a streetlight across from The G Spot, hidden in shadow while observing the line now snaking down the block. Brutal frigid air smacked him in the face and he huddled inside his wool coat. For all its appeal, the Windy City was too far on the polar side for his taste. A century living in the remote Tuscan countryside had transformed the ancient Latin of his mortal Roman life into a fluent tide of Italian and rekindled his love of the sun and sand and heat. Chicago lacked all of the above. Here chill invaded his bones and people struggled with his accent. Kagan was now a man without a country, without a home. He ignored the slow burn of loneliness eating at his gut and flipped up the collar of his coat, squinting through watery eyes at the gathered crowd.

The weather didn't seem to affect the odd assortment of people waiting to enter the non-descript club attached to the liquor store. Mini-skirted women with no coats at all flirted with the bouncer and guys in the latest designer hip-hop wear talked on their cell phones. Goth rockers waited next to men in suits who'd finished up a hard day on the financial markets while the ever-present college horde laughed and carried on, out to party.

Kagan shuffled to increase his circulation and surveyed his target. Whatever he'd expected, Mira Herald wasn't it. Though difficult to see exact details, her legs dangling high off the ground from atop the not so lofty perch of her stool hinted at a petite frame. Otherwise the girl remained a complete mystery, well barricaded within her voluminous outfit. No, voluminous was too polite a description. The mass of fabric surrounding her was nothing short of a circus-tent monstrosity — all funhouse shapes and baggy clown flounces. Except for her feet. The shapeless jeans were shoved deep inside a pair of boots more inclined to kick some ass than walk away.

Suspicion niggled as he eyed her footwear. This target may not prove as easy to secure as he'd first anticipated.
Merda!
Kagan's gloved hands bunched and the wind howled. The fact he'd practically begged for a summons, any summons, did nothing to improve his temper. Divinity's words echoed in his head.
The most important summons of your career.
Kagan snorted, kicking ice chunks down the curb with his frozen toes. Not likely.

A gust caught the edge of his target's craterous hood and tipped it backward. Chestnut curls tumbled out in riotous chaos. The long strands blew wild, and his mind dredged up a line from a favorite Yeats poem:
Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams. Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
Kagan shook his head and snorted.
Cristo!
He was getting senile. A strange tingle drifted through his gut and his lips pursed. Not the buzz of another immortal. Something different. Odd.

His mood darkened as the bouncer to Mira's side leaned closer to help pull up her hood while she stuffed her hair inside. The bouncer's hand lingered a second longer than Kagan deemed necessary and a muscle began to tick near his eye.
Dai!
Must be hypothermia.
Another blast of arctic wind gusted, and Kagan decided now was the time to get his damn mission over and done. First order of business — make contact with the target.

He pushed off the light pole and jogged across the busy street, dodging cars along the way to approach the end of the line. Kagan kept an eye on Ms. Herald from under lowered lashes and pulled money from his wallet. Despite his best efforts, his gaze continued to stray toward the long, errant strands still swirling out of her hood. No matter how viciously she crammed them back inside, they continued to dart out, defiant. With a glance at her boots, Kagan smiled in spite of his foul attitude.
Brave hair.

• • •

From the entrance, Mira glanced across the street while she collected cover and released her pent-up a breath. After two hours, he was gone. She blew on her fleece-covered hands, desperate to generate some warmth. Fatigue assaulted her mind, and she huddled inside the huge down jacket. Her emotions always rode closer to the surface when she was exhausted. Crankiness boiled full-tilt in the pit of her stomach, and with each passing hour, she longed for the end of her shift and an escape from the pre-holiday craze.

“
Ciao, piccola
.” A deep male voice, vaguely accented, brushed over her. Money was thrust under her nose. Mira reached for the bill, her gaze ticking upward to lock with the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. Mesmerizing eyes. Probing eyes. Recognition dawned.
Shit!
Her pseudo-stalker continued to study her, expectant.

Up close, the guy was taller than she'd expected — at least six and a half feet if she judged by the enormous bouncer at her side. The bulky winter clothes did nothing to disguise the breadth of his shoulders, and the heavy material cleaved to his brawny arms testified to the power contained therein. A loose, easy smile spread across the planes of his tan face, revealing even white teeth behind lips full of sensual promise. It was the smile of a man used to getting whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. The casual ease of an alpha predator at the top of his game.

Mira's mouth went arid. An odd flutter tickled through the pit of her stomach, making her squirm. Fight or flight. Flight was the normal, reasonable response in this situation, but the last twelve years had changed her. Now Mira fought. She snapped the money from the guy's long fingers, flashed him a don't-fuck-with-me glare, and jerked her head toward the club entrance. The guy had the nerve to wink at her before he disappeared. Mira battled the urge to kick him in the shin.

Her imaginary Bitchy Meter clicked another notch closer to the red zone as fatigue threatened to obliterate her defenses. Mira's thoughts raced faster than a customized Corvette. So what if the guy was gorgeous, his smoky voice an invitation to climb aboard the
Got Sex
train? Who cared if his mussed-sheets smile curled her toes inside her steel-toed boots? And what difference did it make if he might be big enough, strong enough to fight her most vile demons?

A tap on the shoulder made her thoughts jump the rails. Another bouncer came out to relieve her. Mira headed into the warm indoors with a bone-weary sigh. Her numb fingers fumbled to undue the zipper on her parka and her cheeks tingled beneath the hot air blowing down from the ceiling vents. She hung her coat on the hook behind the bar and straightened her shirt then attempted to tame her feral mane.

“Hey, Mira,” Bebe called over the pounding music. “Can you go downstairs and get some more rum? We're almost out with these drink specials.”

Mira gave a reluctant nod and yanked the keys off the wall. She trudged to the far end of the area and unlocked the basement stockroom. As she stuffed the key ring into her back pocket, Mira's gaze hooked once more with the man uppermost in her recent thoughts. There he sat, draped in a corner booth, longneck in hand, observing her with undisguised interest. The damn flutter blossomed anew.

Mira turned away and slammed the door behind her, clicking on the lights before starting down the rickety stairs.
Get through tonight then a whole blessed week off. I'll make it, dammit!

She punched an inflatable bottle of beer out of the way and finished her trek to the dank basement and pulled the chain on the bare bulb above. Silencing her futile wish to burrow into her nice warm bed and sleep for days, Mira rummaged through the plethora of filthy containers, searching for a damn crate of rum.

A skitter of claws echoed from behind, and Mira whirled toward the sound. She squinted into the dark, but spotted nothing. She returned to the crates only to hear a distant, off-key whistle issue from the far corner. The tune dissolved into one etched on her mind and her heart rate skyrocketed. It was the melody she heard every time she slept. A sinister chuckle near her ear had her leaping for the exit. The lights flickered. The smell of sulfur overwhelmed. Mira charged for the stairs and the lights went out. Pitch black hell. The nightmare had arrived.

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