I’d understood exactly what Cody meant when he said he was going to go home and kill something. It was that strong a drive, and it needed to be vented somehow. As far as the Seven Deadlies went, I was probably better off sticking with lust than letting it turn to envy or anger. So I went inside.

All four members of the Mamma Jammers were there, jamming, because apparently a three-hour-long jam session at Union Pier wasn’t quite long enough. They’d set up their gear in Sinclair’s living room.

Sinclair was messing around with them, banging on a cowbell with a pair of grill tongs. It was a warm night and he was shirtless and barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of khaki cargo shorts that sat low on his hips.

Ka-pow. My mental image of the gift-wrapped box exploded. I felt the air pressure in the room change, lifting my hair with an electrostatic charge. Huh. That sort of thing usually only happened when I got angry. There was a long squall of feedback before a tube burst in one of the Mamma Jammers’ vintage amplifiers with a brief shower of sparks.

In the silence that followed, everyone stared at me. Sinclair took a long breath and blinked a few times. “Daisy? Are you okay? Is everything . . . okay?”

“Yeah.” Realizing I still wore dauda-dagr belted around my waist, I touched the hilt, taking strength from its bracing coolness. Okay. I could make myself walk away from this if I had to. “Is this a bad time? I can go.”

“What? No, of course not. I invited you here.”

I shifted restlessly from foot to foot. “Then can we talk alone for a minute?”

Sinclair gave the Mamma Jammers an uncertain look. “Are you crazy, man?” one of them said. “Go!”

Inside his bedroom, Sinclair closed the door behind us. I unbuckled my belt and let it fall to the floor with a heavy clunk. I didn’t want him to get frostbitten.

“Daisy.” He laid his hands on my shoulders. Unable to help myself, I traced a line on his bare torso with one finger, between his pecs down toward his navel. He caught my hand and removed it, although he laced his fingers through mine. “Whoa! Slow down, girl. Mind if I ask what happened out there to turn a night hanging with the boys into a booty call?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Rutting satyr-funk. It set off an orgy. But it’s okay. We defused it.”

“So this is about some funky satyr?” he asked slowly. “Not you and me?”

“A little,” I admitted.

“I’m not sure how I feel about that.” Sinclair’s face was unreadable in the dim light. “This isn’t how I wanted it to go down between us.”

“Yeah, me either,” I said. “This was a mistake. I should go.”

“Probably.” There was a certain lack of conviction in his voice. “I guess.”