He wrenched his mind from that delectable mental image (the better to eat you with, my dear…eat you all…up!) and concentrated on thinking about what an idiot he had been. It was a miracle the woman had said yes. It was a miracle she hadn’t hit him over the head with her bell. He had to be very careful at lunch; it was imperative she not spook. He thanked God he was weeks away from his Change; if he’d caught her scent any closer to the full moon, he’d have scared the pants off her. Literally.

God, she was so adorable. Look at her, shaking her little bell for all she was worth. Many people stopped (pulled in, no doubt, by her allure) and threw money in her bucket. As they should! They should give her gold bullion, they should lay roses at her feet, they—

He pushed away from the wall, appalled; someone hadn’t put money in! An expensively dressed man in his late thirties had used the bucket to make change and went on his merry way.

Alec got moving. In no time, he had closed the distance and flanked the man, snaked out a hand, and pulled him into a handy alley.

“Wha-aaaggh!”

“This is cashmere,” Alec said, his hand fisting in the man’s coat.

“Let go of me,” the man squeaked, reeking of stale piss—the smell of fear. “Or I’ll yell rape!”

“Your shoes,” Alec continued, undaunted, “are from Gerbard in London and didna cost you less than eight hundred pounds.” Only Samuel Gerbard used that kind of supple leather when making his footwear; the smell was distinctive. “And that’s a Coach briefcase.”

“Gggglllkkkk!”

Perhaps he was holding the man a little too firmly. Alec released his grip. “The point is, you c’n stand to share a little this holiday season.”

“Wha?”

“Go back,” he growled, “and put money. In. The bucket.”

He let go. The man fled. In the right direction—toward his Santa sweetie.

A minute later, Alec was back at his post. He checked his watch for the thirtieth time in the last half hour. Ninety minutes to go. An eternity.

An eternity later, at 11:57, he realized the skulking teenagers were ready to make their move. The three of them had been casing the block for the last fifteen minutes, had been watching his lunch date much too closely. It was the bucket, of course; they wanted lunch money…or the eight grand he’d dropped in. It would be laughable, except one of them smelled like gun oil, which meant Alec had to take some care.

Their path took them right past him; he reached out and slammed the one with the gun into the side of the building. The boy—a child in his late teens—flopped bonelessly to the sidewalk.