Mariposa was the only person Asil had ever run from. Asil was not guilty of unsupported arrogance—he knew exactly how powerful, how capable he was. And he had run from her.
“Mariposa is dead,” Asil assured both of them under his breath as he stared at the woman, who had so far not noticed him. “I saw her die. Ifelther die.”
More specifically, he’d felt her release his dead mate’s wolf from the living death that allowed Mariposa to share in a werewolf’s immortality. He had felt the witch lose her grip on his mating bond, which she’d stolen, along with his mate’s wolf, when she’d killed Sarai.
When witches die, their magic dies with them, his wolf said.The collars on the big cats were her magic.
Asil sensed the fear that underlay his wolf’s anger. He understood it because he shared both.
“Only the big magic dies,” Asil whispered so no one except his wolf could hear him. “Or unskilled spellcrafting. Mariposa’s magic was very skilled.”
The woman frowned up at the driver, the move changing the light, and Asil felt a wave of something. Relief, perhaps.He’d been wrong. She was not his fosterling, not his mate’s killer—though the resemblance was uncannily strong.
Not Mariposa. Asil let his breath out in a steady push designed to calm his pulse.
Not her, agreed the wolf, but there was no lessening of his fear—or his rage.
That woman looked too much like Mariposa for coincidence.
Twice in the past four dates, Asil had come to the rescue of his date. Twice, his date had been the villain. He wondered, almost absently because most of his attention was still on the woman, which way it would work this time.
When he took his hand away from the pillar, a small chunk of concrete fell, having given way under the pressure of his fingers. The sound of it landing on the pavement was loud, echoing against the hard walls of the garage.
The woman and her driver turned to look at him. They would not have seen the cement drop and so would not wonder how or why he’d broken the pillar. He executed a graceful bow that gave him time to hide the wolf in his eyes.
Mrs.Alvarez said something to her driver, a stubborn set to her mouth that Asil wished he was less familiar with. He could not make out what it was that she said, as if she were used to being around sharp-eared creatures.
She lifted up her gown to keep it off the ground and walked toward him, her movements slow and graceful. He sensed it was not a natural movement for her, that someone had coached her. She was a little taller than Mariposa was—had been.Had been.And built on a more slender frame.
She looked no more than twenty, though between the faintvampire scent her driver carried and her resemblance to Mariposa, Asil wasn’t willing to trust her appearance. He merely took note of it.
Human, said his wolf, observing her movement. Then, when her scent, warm under an expensive perfume, reached them over the burnt oil and car wax of the underground parking garage,She is not witchborn.
Asil agreed that it was puzzling.
But her scent also clarified her odd resemblance to the black witch who had been the bane of his existence since the Napoleonic Wars. Mrs.Alvarez, unlike Tami the black witch of his third date, actually was Mariposa’s daughter.
Her scent told him lots of other things, too. She had good taste in perfume—and she was extremely distressed. Not frightened, he did not think, though it was close to that.
“Mrs.Alvarez,” he said as she got close enough. He reached out and, good manners evidently instinctive, she held out her hand. He took it and bent to put his lips just above her skin without touching.
Yes, his wolf observed unnecessarily. Mariposa’s daughter. Unmistakable.She is also vampire-kissed, by the same vampire as our driver. Not a sheep, but closer to that than the driver is.
Her eyes were clear and a familiar jewel-deep brown when she looked up at him. He smiled at her and broke their gaze. He did not want to give her more warning of what he was than was necessary.
“Mr.Moreno,” she said, and her voice was wrong. He had been expecting her to sound like Mariposa, but her voice was entirely her own and carried a light accent. Not Spanish. Or Irish, as her first name implied. French.
“Enchanté,” he murmured in that language.
She smiled, a polite mask. “Let us keep to English? It is rude to speak in a language that everyone doesn’t understand.”
“As you wish,” he agreed.
He stepped to the car and ushered her into the backseat he’d just left, aware without looking directly at the man that the driver watched him with a gimlet eye.
Guard dog. Loyal. Kept on a leash by blind obedience.
There was contempt in his wolf’s tones that Asil didn’t feel himself. Guard dogs were useful and dangerous.
