I pull it out, and the screen activates when I press the home button—so far so good. It’s Anne, my aunt. The sister of my adoptive dad. We’re not close, but we both feel obligated to keep in touch. John adopted me at the age of ten, and he saved me from a childhood in hell. I owe him my sanity and my life. When he died of a heart attack eight years later, I swore I’d make sure his sixty-year-old sister had everything she needed. I spent the winnings from my fights to pay off her mortgage so she could retire. Now, I mostly leave her be, but we check on each other from time to time. For John.

I type a bland response, something cheeky that’ll keep her sweet, but as soon as it’s sent, the words dissolve into random pixels, sparks crackle and spit. Then the screen goes blank. I press the power button. Nothing. The phone’s as dead as a stone.

Damn. My static hands are getting worse. I went through three toasters and two kettles before realizing it was me causing them to break.

“Michael. My name is Gabriel Flanagan. I must speak with you.” I glance up to find the Viking who tried to buy me a drink standing over me, looking oddly serious. He must have gotten my name off Terry, that cupid traitor.

I can see what my friend means, though. Mr. Hollywood is a handsome bloke for sure, with striking silver eyes, but he definitely personifies the History Channel more than Tinsel Town. He’s got plaits running through his hair on one side, and his hard leather vest looks like armor. A detailed silver symbol glitters on the vest’s right shoulder—a circle enclosing a howling wolf, wings, and a growling cat, six dots in a line beneath. He’s as odd as my illusory shadow, but this character is definitely real. I can smell the leather, and those steel knives on his belt glint in the bar light. The man’s lucky the police aren’t around; he’d be arrested.

I stuff the phone into my jeans and stand to edge past him to make my escape. “Er, listen, mate. I’m flattered an’ all, but I’m not into dudes.”

He’s at least seven inches taller than me—a mountain in leather—wider in the shoulders too, but I think I can take him if he starts getting antsy about the rejection.

I give him an easy smile and point to Terry, who’s watching my discomfort with a touch of concern. “Why don’t you try Terry? He has a love bed. With Jamie Drake silks.” Guilt twinges my chest for pimping out my friend, but tall and muscly is his type, so he won’t mind.

As I back away, heading for the safety of the dance floor, the guy reaches for my arm. “Michael, it’s important we speak tonight. You are in danger.”

Wow, this weirdo lays it on thick. He clearly thinks he’s at some fantasy cosplay event. I tug my arm from his grip. His eyes flit around the room as though checking for something.