“Look, all I know is that we want to be where the party is.” As Eddie sneezed again, Ad amended that in his head to include where the antihistamines were. “And listen, I’ve walked around this house. It’s secure as a motherfucker. Matthias is the soul in play so wherever he is will be where the action goes down—and he’s coming for Isaac.”

There was a beat of silence. And then Jim said, “Grier’s an innocent soul, though, and an excellent way for Matthias to get revenge—maybe she’s the one he’s supposed to take out. We just don’t fucking know. Which is why I want to give it some more time . . . and then maybe we’ll trade places.”

“Fine. Wherever you want us, we’ll go,” Ad heard himself say before hanging up.

Check him out, being all good-little-soldier and shit. And didn’t that just suck ass.

“We’re staying put,” he groused. “For now.”

“Hard to know where to position.”

“We need more fighters.”

“If Isaac lives . . . we could turn him. He’s got the stuff.”

Adrian glanced over. “Nigel would never give his permission for that.” Pause. “Would he?”

“I think he’d dislike losing more, I’ll tell you that.”

Adrian resumed watching Grier cut two slices and plate them up. He got the impression by the way her lips were moving that she and her father were talking pretty steadily, and he was glad. He didn’t know what having a dad was like, but he’d been on the Earth long enough to know that a good one was a great thing.

He cursed as Grier headed for the freezer. “Oh, man. Ice cream, too?”

“How you can have an appetite at a time like this astounds me.”

Adrian took a little bow. “I am amazing.”

“‘Freak’ is also a word.”

On that note, Ad pulled some “Super Freak” out of his vocal cords, doing a fantastic Rick James impression. In the lilac bushes. In . . . where the hell were they? Roosevelt, Massachusetts? Or was it Adams?

Washington?

“By all that is holy,” Eddie muttered as he covered his ears, “stop—”

“—in the name of loooooove.” Putting his hand out, Ad switched it up and Diana Ross-ed it, shaking his ass. “Be . . . fore. . . . you . . . breaaaaak . . . my—”

Eddie’s soft chuckle was what he’d been gunning for, and as soon as he got one, he shut up.

As things grew quiet again, he thought about good old Isaac Rothe. That hardheaded, strong-backed motherfucker might be an excellent addition to the team.

Of course, he’d have to die first.

Or be killed.

Either of which, given how shit was going, could be arranged tonight.