He told the dryads he had work to do at his office, and they could either wait for his call or accompany him. They seemed completely unperturbed by his lack of urgency regarding his mother. He suspected any urgency in their own lives was like that experienced by the average toddler—a sudden and burning need to have something right that moment…forgotten as soon as a distraction presented itself.

The dryads happily accompanied Gabriel to his office and then decided to play legal assistant while they waited, offering to file papers, answer e-mails, whatever task he might like to set them on. Again not unlike a small child who thinks household chores are great fun…for about five minutes. Gabriel put them to work tidying the supply closet. It seemed relatively harmless, and he wasn’t about to turn down free labor.

On the drive over, he’d weighed his options. He did not consider refusing to follow up on the dryads’ lead, no more than he or Olivia had ignored mysterious messages they had received, knowing they would almost certainly lead to a trap. It was rather like having an enemy invite you to tea—you know your Earl Grey will likely contain a lethal dose of arsenic, but if you refuse the invitation, he’ll only find another method of attack, perhaps one you won’t see coming.

The answer, then, was to take backup. The obvious and preferred choice was Olivia. Ricky ran a somewhat distant second. Yet both were off on an important task of their own, and Gabriel hated postponing a call to adventure. Which, perhaps, proved he shared more blood with the dryads than he cared to admit.

Gabriel weighed his choices. Then he made a call.

CHAPTER THIRTY

I hit the button on the remote for Ioan’s gate, and we drove through. As I pulled off my helmet, Ricky looked at me and said, “You might want to pop your collar.”

“Hey, if the biker doesn’t pop his, I’m not popping mine. Also? We’re thirty years past that fashion faux pas.”

“Yeah, but it still comes in handy when you’re sporting a hickey.”

“What?” My hands flew to my neck, and I found the tender spot. “Shit. No, that’s not— I burned it. My hair wasn’t cooperating, so I dragged out the curling iron.”

“Gabriel has a curling iron?”

“No, I meant— Damn it.” I rooted through my bag for concealer. “I’m sorry. If I’d noticed, I’d have hidden it.”