She snorted. “Now you sound like my mother. If youmustknow, I’m working on becoming a teacher.”
He grimaced. Caring for young was an esteemed position worthy of respect, but it wasn’t a job he enjoyed. That was why their captain used work in the Solbourne Nursery Center as punishment for misbehavior.
If he had to choose, he’d pick having his claws pulled out one by one over caring for a fleet of slavering, sociopathic young every time.
Mind churning through the problems she’d presented him, he demanded, “Do you walk this route at this hour regularly?”
She gave him a wary look. “I don’t know if I should tell you that.”
That’s a yes.
They turned a corner. He glanced around critically, judging the distance from her work, the sparse street lights in the slightly run-down area. It wasn’t far from the glittering Haight district, with all its vice and blood vendettas, but in San Francisco, moving even one street over was like crossing into another universe. The street was all sleepy old homes with caged windows — a remnant of the war years — and apartment buildings that hadn’t seen upgrades since the 60s.
“You shouldn’t walk by yourself,” he firmly instructed her.
“I don’t, usually. My friend works in the same bar, but she has the flu.” She shrugged. “I can handle myself.”
Sloane took in her fragile frame, her blunt nails, and the sheer softness of her. “You cannot.”
“Okay, this was a bad night, but I?—”
“You are soft and small and defenseless,” he bluntly explained. “Your senses are dull and your reflexes non-existent. In a confrontation, your best bet is to run as fast as you can. That is unacceptable. You may be weak, but you deserve to be safe at all times. It’s my job to make sure you are.”
She shook her head. “You know, for a job that doesn’t seem to bring you joy, you seem to take it pretty seriously.”
Already making plans, he replied, “I take protection duty very seriously.”
Cece slowed to a stop in front of an apartment building. Sunlight had just begun to color the horizon. It touched the longblack strands of her hair, turning them a deep, bloody red. She faced him with a nervous smile. “Well, um, thank?—”
“What is Cece short for?” The words tumbled out of him in a way they never had before, as if each one was a link in a chain he desperately wanted to wrap around her, holding her there with him in the soft glow of dawn.
She blinked rapidly, that nervous quirk of her lips softening into an expression he’d never been on the receiving end of before: one of gentle delight.
“Cecilia,” she answered, walking backward up the short flight of steps to the door. She placed her hand on the knob, but she didn’t flee his company immediately. Not like she should’ve. Not like any sane creature who valued their life ought to.
Her big brown eyes, liquid gold in the new sunlight, gazed intently at his visor. “What’s your name, Officer?”
Fire crackled in his belly and licked up his throat, making it hard to speak. “Classified,” he finally answered, forcing himself to take a step back, away from the doe.
“Oh,” she breathed, smile falling. “Well… thank you. For the assistance.”
He nodded once. It was the only thing he could think to do as he watched her turn away and enter the building. The flames spread beneath his skin, tracing the fine webbing of his nerves until every part of him burned with the desire to follow her up the stairs. To make sure she was safe. To listen to her voice. To watch a doe in her natural habitat and maybe get a glimpse into a world he could barely imagine.
But Sloane was well trained in the fine art of self-deprivation. Besides, he had a hunt to finish.
He forced himself away from his doe, but he didn’t bother depriving himself of a smaller consolation prize. It was an easy thing, retracing his steps back to the alley. It was even easier topick up her discarded sweater from where it lay in a heap on the ground.
And after he’d stored it in a cache to be retrieved later, it was his pleasure to finish his night exactly as he envisioned: hunting down a man who thought he’d gotten off with only a few missing teeth.
CHAPTER
THREE
SEPTEMBER 2048 — SAN FRANCISCO, THE ELVISH PROTECTORATE
Cecilia tuckedher serving tray beneath her arm and leaned her hip against the edge of the bar as she waited for the bartender to hand over two cheap bottles of alcoholic synthblood. The Lush was hot and humid as bodies crammed together between high tables and the dance floor.
She’d thought that perhaps the recent high profile murder that happened on the premises might deter business, not increase it. She was wrong. They’d been packed nearly every night since management and the authorities had given them the all-clear to reopen.
