I rolled my eyes—as if I was important enough to the Marrok for him to take on the seethe while he was trying so hard to keep the werewolves looking good. Bran was too pragmatic for that. But Stefan was right; besides, there was nothing I could do that a pair of vampires and werewolves couldn't do better.

"Get him for her," I told him. "For that maid and for the others who should be with their loved ones tonight and not buried in the cold ground."

Stefan took my hand and bowed low over it, touching his lips to the back. His elegant gesture made me conscious of how rough my skin was—mechanic work is not easy on hands.

"As my lady desires," he said, sounding utterly serious.

CHAPTER 5

Hello?" Adam's voice was brisk.

"It's been nearly a week," I said. "Littleton's not coming after me—he's busy playing games with Warren and Stefan." Warren had kept me more or less updated on the hunt for the vampire-sorcerer, such as it was. Somehow Littleton was always a step ahead of them. "Call off the bodyguards."

There was a little silence on the other end of the phone line, then Adam said, "No. We're not discussing this over the phone. If you want to talk to me, you come over and talk to me. Wear something to spar in, I'll be working out in the garage." Then he hung up.

"How about some different bodyguards?" I asked the phone plaintively. "Someone I actually get along with shouldn't be too much to ask."

I set the phone down and glared at it. "Fine. I'll just deal with her."

***

When I got home from work the next day, I grimly put on my gi and called him again. "You win," I said.

"I'll meet you in my garage." To his credit, he didn't sound smug—proof that Adam is a man of tremendous self-control.

As I trudged across my back field, I told myself it was stupid to be so worried about talking to him. He was hardly likely to jump my bones without permission. All I had to do is keep this on a business setting.

I found Adam practicing high kicks on a sandbag in the dojo he'd made out of half of his garage, complete with a wall of mirrors, padded floor, and air-conditioning. His kicks were picture perfect—mine would be too if I'd been practicing them for thirty or forty years. Maybe.

He finished his reps, then came up to me and touched the side of my face. His scent, stronger for his exercise, enveloped me; I had to fight not to press my head against his hand.

"How's the head?" he asked. The bruises had faded a bit, enough that customers didn't look embarrassed when they saw me.

"Fine." This morning was the first time I'd woken up without a splitting headache.