“Hi,” the undercover model says when she notices me.
“Have we found anything yet?” I ask.
“Not that I’ve heard.”
I nod toward her bag. “Get anything good?”
Looking guilty, she produces a small tube containing a product that claims to plump lips by twenty percent. “It’s supposed to be fabulous, but I tried it on, and I really don’t see it.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “That’s because you’re a Peacock—you’re already perfect.”
She shrugs as she walks away, swinging the bag. “It’s worth a try, right? The girls who’ve had their magic swiped are swearing by the stuff.”
“Find any pixies?” I ask the Griffon when I find him in Women’s Eveningwear, the area Sara was supposed to work today. He watches a trio of women modeling long fitted jackets over their trim, A-line gowns. They’d make the perfect bridesmaid dresses for a snowy, outdoor winter wedding, but that thought does absolutely nothing for my mood.
Jonathan glances over as if surprised to see me. “Hey.”
I step up next to him. “I heard there was another attack?”
“Luckily Sara wasn’t nine hundred years old,” he mutters and then turns to me. “What about you? Did you have a good morning?”
“No.”
The Griffon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well, you’re still alive, so it couldn’t have been that rough.”
“May I paraphrase my conversation with Gray?” I ask, and then I nod to the stage. “Any of them Peacocks?”
“One. And go for it.”
“The Wolf informed me that you and I would have to be idiots to think we can have a relationship when I’m linked to someone else. Oh, and he thinks I should start dating Rafe.”
Jonathan frowns. “He’s right.”
I shoot him a look. “Of course he’s right, but that doesn’t mean I want to hear it.”
Without a word, Jonathan takes my hand and pulls me through the crowd, finding a deserted corner by a water fountain. When he turns, I realize how tired he looks—apparently, I’m not the only one who can’t sleep.
“Madeline…” His eyes search mine. “I can’t kiss you without Rafe knowing. I can’t even touch you.”
I rub my temples, wishing I could start this day over.
Jonathan looks over my shoulders, out into the convention hall. “I just don’t see how this can work.”
My stomach drops to my toes, and a dull warning registers in my brain.
He studies me, shaking his head. “Last night—”
“Was amazing.”
I know Jonathan agrees with me, but his mouth flattens to a thin line like he’s going to argue. “I feel like I’m stealing you, Madeline—like you’re cheating on him with me.”
“But I’m not.”
“I know that—I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. I want to push his hand away, smooth the strands back into place like they were before we started this conversation. “But what can we do? I’ve been over it a hundred times, and I can’t find an answer.”
I cross my arms and look away, obnoxiously close to tears. I hold my breath and angle my head back, refusing to give in.
Jonathan steps closer, tilting my chin so I have to look at him. “Listen to me. I have never felt about someone the way I feel about you.”
I blink quickly. “Not helping.”
“And I hate this—Madeline, I hate it. But for whatever reason, we’re not meant for each other. You promised yourself to Rafe when you merged your magic with his—and sweetheart, you need to give it a chance.”
A sob escapes me, and the dam breaks. And these aren’t pretty, soft feminine tears—no. They’re blotchy, blubbering, where-is-a-freaking-tissue tears.
Jonathan tugs me into his arms, holding me like we’re on a sinking ship. I cry into his shirt, soaking the fabric, and he doesn’t even care.
It shouldn’t hurt this much—we never made it official. We’ve never even been on a real date.
But, oh, it hurts something awful.
“So we’re done?” I ask, trying to staunch my tears before they destroy my makeup, but I know it’s too late. “We’re not going to change our minds in the middle of the night, or tomorrow, or next week?”
The knight softens his grip on me and meets my eyes, using his thumb to wipe away my tears. He looks like someone just ran over his dog, and seeing his pain just makes me want to die.
“Not this time.” He tugs me close one more time, resting his head on mine. “This time it’s over.”
21
My phone rings—of course it does. If Rafe felt me last night, he certainly feels this.
“Answer it,” Jonathan whispers.
I shake my head, refusing to let go of him.
Which Jonathan apparently takes as permission to reach into my purse and snatch my cell.
“Rafe,” he says when he answers the call. He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he says, “She’s all right, but she needs you. Pull your head out of the sand and get yourself on a plane.”
After another long moment, he ends the call with a short, sharp goodbye and places the phone back in my purse.
“Let me guess,” I say, sounding just a tiny bit snide. “Rafe thinks it’s safer if he stays away.”
“No.” Jonathan takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. “He’s headed to the airport.”
Rafe is actually coming. For some reason, the thought of seeing him—in person, not through our strange link—is sort of terrifying.
I step back, feeling numb. This day didn’t go at all like I expected.
“I’m going back to the room,” I tell him, wiping my face one last time. I’m sure I’m a red, puffy mess, and I have damage control to do on my mascara. “Tell Gray, will you?”
“I’ll walk you,” Jonathan says, though he looks hesitant. “You’re really not supposed to go anywhere by yourself.”
This is fun, isn’t it? We break up—or whatever you want to call this, and I can’t even cry in the elevator in private.
“I’ll be all right. It’s not that far, and I’ll be careful.” If I had my Taser, he’d probably be more apt to let me leave.
The Griffon straightens, putting on his knight marshal face. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go alone.”
“Fine.”
Jonathan follows me through the convention hall, staying just a few steps behind like a guard instead of a teammate.
I hate this.
If I could go back and slap myself in Redstone, I would. I should have stayed away from Jonathan, kept it light and friendly. At least then I wouldn’t know what I was losing.
“Hold up,” he says suddenly, dropping his hand on my shoulder.
I freeze, startled by the contact. “What is it?”
He ends up next to me, staring into the crowd. “There’s a pixie up ahead.”
I jerk my eyes to the direction he’s looking and stand on my tiptoes to get a better view. “Who is it?”
“Blond-haired man in a red shirt and dark-wash jeans, around six foot.”
A tall woman moves aside, and then I see him. He ambles through the crowd, occasionally stopping to look at displays. He seems like nothing more than a casual browser, but there’s something calculating about his movements—they’re almost too nonchalant.
“What do we do?” I ask, temporarily forgetting about my blotchy face. Who cares if you have mascara-tinted tear stains when there’s a criminal to catch? (Actually, I do, but I’m going to pretend I don’t.)
Jonathan grasps my arm, pulling me closer. “We follow him.”
It’s official. The pixie is the most boring criminal alive. He wandered the expo for about an hour, stopping here and there, generally looking suspicious but not doing anything.
We then followed him into the casino, where he went from slot machine to poker table to roulette wheel, playing occasionally, though never lingering anywhere for long. He then browsed some of the shops, buying a bag of jell
y beans and an “I Heart Las Vegas” mesh-backed trucker hat. (And let’s stop right here and talk about suspicious behavior. Who would spend hours in a fashion expo and then buy that atrocity?) He also purchased a sparkly snow globe of The Mediterranean and a pound of peanut butter fudge.
Now we’re in the back row of a 4D movie theater, watching a show titled Sea of Predators: True Horror Stories from the Deep.
“This man is such a poster child tourist, he must be a criminal,” Jonathan whispers, apparently not interested in sharks.
I wince, not needing to see that much blood on a massive screen ever again. “I wish he’d just hurry up and attack a Peacock. I don’t know that I can take much more of this.”
Jonathan grunts in agreement.
“You don’t happen to have that tracking device that we used in Tahoe with you, do you?” I ask, knowing it’s a long shot. “I’d really like to get out of here.”
“No.” He then sighs as if deciding something that doesn’t particularly please him.
The onscreen shark suddenly chases a school of fish “into” the audience, and we’re sprayed with questionably clean water as the 3D image lunges for us. The crowd squeals and laughs, but I grit my teeth and wipe my face.
Today is not my favorite.
Ignoring the people around us, Jonathan takes out his phone, which is hopefully in a waterproof case, and sends off a quick text.
“What are you doing?” I ask, not sure if he hears me over another audience-wide shriek. Oh look, the man-eating shark just attacked another man-eating shark. More blood.
“I’m asking Gray if any of the Vegas teams have a Hound.”
And he doesn’t mean hound as in dog, but Hound as in the Canis faction—the trackers.
“And why didn’t we do that sooner?” I ask.
Jonathan gets that awful look on his face again. It takes me a moment to realize what it is, but then I roll my eyes.
“It’s like asking for directions, isn’t it?” I demand. “You’re a guy, and you’d rather muddle through it yourself.”
He holds up a hand in a silent, “What?”
The Griffon’s phone lights up with a reply.
“Gray said someone named Parker will meet us in an hour,” Jonathan says. “Until then, we’re supposed to stay on the pixie.”
“Joy,” I deadpan, hoping the guy hurries. Then I settle back to watch some more shark carnage. The good news is the documentary (and I use that term loosely) is so disturbing, I can in no way focus on it. Meaning my mind is fully on the knight next to me.
Oh, wait. That’s not good news—that’s torture.
Finally, the film ends, and the lights go up.
“I’ve seen things I’ll never be able to unsee,” I say, staring at the blank screen.
Jonathan chuckles, and then he bolts upright and swears under his breath. People jostle by us, exiting the theater. I shift forward, out of the impatient tourists’ way, and follow Jonathan’s eyes, feeling like swearing myself.
The pixie is nowhere to be seen. Somehow, he slipped us.
Forty-five minutes after we lose the pixie, Jonathan opens the door of our suite and motions me inside. He’s irritated with himself. I’m irritated with everyone.
We wouldn’t make the best company right now.
He walks around the suite, checking the bedroom, two closets, and bathroom for any unwanted visitors. I follow, looking for anything he might miss.
“Hurry and clean up. We need to meet with Gray,” he says, glancing at his phone to check the time. “Parker is here, and Gray wants us to go back to the places the pixie visited to see if we can pick up a trail.”
I rub my neck, staring at the wall. “You go ahead.”
“Madel—”
“Go.”
Instead of leaving, Jonathan makes a call. “You close?” he asks, and after a moment he says, “Room 507.”
The Griffon then hangs up the phone and turns back to me. “Rafe just got to the casino. He’ll be up shortly.”
My stomach knots.
Jonathan meets my eyes, his chocolate gaze enigmatic. “I’ll let you have a few minutes to yourself.”
I can’t decide if I want to kiss him or slap him, though I know this isn’t his fault any more than it’s mine. All right, I suppose it’s sort of my fault.
Crossing my arms, I stand a little straighter, boldly meeting his eyes. “When it comes down to it, I’d rather watch you walk away now than have let you die at Redstone.”
The whole “doomed if you do, doomed if you don’t” thing is really starting to resonate with me right now.
Jonathan’s eyebrows twitch, and he presses his lips together. For one moment—one brief, tension-filled second—I think he’s going to cross the room, yank me into his arms, and kiss me like he did in Redstone.
But he doesn’t because he’s decided what we’re doing is wrong. And Jonathan, above all else, is a good guy, just like everyone claims.
“Call me if you need me,” he says, looking away. He pauses just before he’s out the door, with his back to me. “I mean it, Madeline. Even though we can’t be together, my blade is yours.”
I close my eyes, near my breaking point. After a moment, I open my eyes and stare at the back of his neck. “Just your blade? What about your gun?”
Slowly, he turns, and his eyes lock with mine. “I believe you know what I mean.”
Holding my breath, I nod.
He made a knight’s vow, a promise—initiated in Redstone, confirmed just now. The good, noble Griffon just swore his allegiance to the dark queen. Apparently, I have two knights instead of one.
And then he’s out the door, leaving me alone in the suite.
I stumble to the bed and lower myself onto the edge. I spent all my tears earlier, and my eyes are dry. But now I just feel hollow, which seems worse.
After several long moments, I pull out my cell phone, bring up my contacts, and stare at the screen. I end up making the call without truly deciding to, and I almost hang up.
“Madeline?” my former best friend says after the second ring, sounding shocked to hear from me.
“Hey, Maisy.”
And because she’s known me for basically forever, she instantly picks up on the off tone of my voice. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t tell her about my magic. I can’t tell her about Jonathan or linking with Rafe or anything that’s really important. I just wanted to do something that feels halfway normal—and calling her after an awful day feels normal.
“I’m working on a case,” I say. “And I have a question.”
“Okay, sure.” She murmurs something to someone in the room, sounding like she’s excusing herself, and then comes back on the line. “How can I help?”
“Have you ever used extracted magic in your potions?”
“Extracted magic?” she parrots, sounding horrified at the thought. “Mads, not only is that incredibly forbidden, but it’s downright creepy.”
“We’re looking for a man who put up an ad on a human black market website requesting ‘Essence of Peacock.’ We’ve linked it to Cristatus magic. I’m trying to figure out what someone might do with it.”
The alchemist makes a humming sound as if thinking. “Anything can be infused in a potion, really. I’m assuming the liquid magic would act as a charm—Peacock, you say?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the first that pops into my head is a lotion—like an anti-aging cream. Once applied, the effect would be nearly instantaneous, but because the magic would have to be blended with organic items that break down, it would only be temporary—like any other potion.”
My heart thumps just a little faster, and I stand, going into the bathroom. “Like maybe a face cream?”
“Yes, certainly, if it were liquid based.”
“If I send you a sample, could you deconstruct it?”
“You mean break down the ingredient list?” she asks, sounding intrigued. “Most likely.”
“I�
�ll get it in the mail today.”
I flip open my makeup case, looking for the small container of eye cream Georgette gave me yesterday, wondering if there’s enough for Maisy to test. As soon I see the contents, I let out a gasp and take a step back, getting a serious case of déjà vu . A crisp, white envelope lies on top of my orderly cosmetics.
“Are you okay?” Maisy asks.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Thank you for checking it out, Maisy.” I stare at the note. “I really appreciate it.”
“I’m really glad you called,” she says, and the sentiment sounds sincere. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
“Mmmhmm. I’ll talk to you soon.”
I hang up and slowly set my phone on the counter. As I’m staring at the envelope, the sound of the lock mechanism sounds from the main door. I close my eyes, relieved Rafe’s just outside. Knowing he’s here gives me the courage I need to snatch the note and rip it open.
I stare at it, surprised to find the envelope empty.
“I thought it might be best to deliver this message in person,” a man says from behind me.
I whirl around, letting out a startled yip. My eyes go wide as I take in the Fox from the elevator.
“How did you—” I start, and then cut myself off. “What do you want?”
Slowly, keeping his eyes locked on mine, he bows. “To serve you.”
I could deny who I am, but what’s the point? “How do you know me?”
He takes a step forward, and I shift back. As if that amuses him, he smirks. “We have a mutual friend.”
Grasping blindly, not about to take my eyes off him, I flick on my curling iron and pray I have sixty seconds to wait for it to heat. He doesn’t even appear to notice.
“Who?” I demand, wondering if it’s Trent or Jenna.
“That’s not important.”
“You’re with the Entitled?” I say.
He smiles, running his eyes over me. His fake tan looks especially orange in the bright bathroom light. “We’ve been waiting for you for—”
“A very long time,” I interrupt. “I know.”
They’re like a bunch of broken records. You would think in all that time, they would have worked on their speech.
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