 
Call Out

by LB Clark

copyright 2012 Lone Star Book Works

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons living, dead, or undead is purely incidental.

This book is dedicated to:

Erin, my evil twin, travel companion, and co-conspirator—I couldn't have done this without you.

All the artist whose music made up the soundtrack for my writing, particularly the boys in Lifehouse, Elvis Monroe, Juke Kartel/London Cries, and Paperback Hero. This book wouldn't exist if not for them. My sanity probably wouldn't, either.

And the friends and family members of all us dreamers—musicians and artists and writers and poets—who've stood beside us, supported us, cheered us on, and put up with us through it all.

Chapter One

From all around me came the sounds of battle: the dull thump of mace on shield, the jingling of chainmail armor, the heavier clank of full plate, the rhythmic chanting of wizards and healers casting their spells. Somewhere in the chaos my brothers-in-arms—my friends—threw themselves into the fight, working to press the enemy back, away from the fortress we were foresworn to defend. I had no time to spare a thought for my friends as I moved to square off against an opponent, a sword in my right hand and a shield strapped to my left arm.

The enemy, smaller and younger than me, shifted lightly from foot to foot, looking for an opening between me and my shield and trusting his compatriots to watch his back. He was wise to let them; he had enough to do trying to protect himself from the front. Speed and agility are the hallmark of the young, but so are inexperience and overconfidence. The boy—for he couldn't have been more than that—danced forward and drew his sword down, right to left, aiming for my legs. I dropped to my knees in the dirt, and my shield turned his blade aside.

Seeing my opportunity, I flung my left arm wide, following the deflected sword. Into the now wide-open space in front of me, I thrust my blade. The boy tried to jump backward, but I let myself fall forward, and my momentum carried the tip of my blade into his belly.

I fell to the ground, sword hand still extended, and rolled onto my back, covering myself with my shield. I looked up to find one of my allies shielding me, giving me a moment to regain my feet and reenter the fray.

Staggering to my feet, I let my eyes sweep the battlefield. I nodded to the man who had been guarding me, and we moved together to engage a mace-wielding madman. I paused midstride, listening. Then I stepped back out of striking range, set my sword aside, and reached into the pocket of my jeans.

"Shit." I held my shield over my head in an awkward gesture that signified defeat. "Sorry. Phone call. I gotta take it," I said. I didn't recognize the number, and this close to graduation any unfamiliar number could be a potential job offer.

"It's all good," my teammate said, never missing a step, his attention focused on the game.

I scooped up my sword and shoved it under my arm as I hurried off the field, answering my cell as I ran.

"Hello?"

Nothing but silence answered my greeting, and I wondered for a moment if the call had dropped. Then a familiar voice asked, "Elizabeth?"

I'm good with voices. Sometimes it's easier for me to identify someone by his voice than by his face. Even without that, I'd have known that voice anywhere. Brian Kelly had the most unique accent I'd ever heard, not quite Australian and not quite British but something in between the two.

"It's me. What's up Brian?" I asked, wondering why in the world he could be calling. We were friends, but we usually kept in touch through my best friend who happened to be his girlfriend. I scored a bottle of water from a nearby cooler and plopped down at a picnic table.

There was an uncomfortable silence, punctuated by the sounds of my fellow gamers bashing each other with foam swords. After a moment, Brian asked, "Have you heard from Dylan?"

Brian had convinced Dylan Connelly, my closest friend and former roommate, to spend a week with him in Orlando. From what Dylan had told me, her flight should have landed by now. I frowned as I cracked the seal on my water bottle.

"I haven't talked to her since last night. Is everything okay?"

I listened to the silence spin out again as I uncapped the water and took a long drink.

"Brian?"

"She's not here," Brian said. "Her flight landed half an hour ago. I haven't seen her, and she's not answering her phone."

I took another drink before answering. "Brian, you know Dylan's bad about forgetting to turn her phone on. She's probably wandering around the airport wondering where you are."

"So she didn't change her mind, then?"

I almost laughed. Dylan had talked about nothing but Brian for months. This week was likely to be the highlight of her year—or maybe her decade.

"Brian, honey," I said, "Dylan didn't change her mind. Not about this week, and not about you. Okay?"

Brian made a small sound that couldn't quite be called a laugh. "London said I was being paranoid." London, I knew, was Brian's close friend and band mate. The band—named DPS of all things—had a gig at the Hard Rock in Orlando at the end of the week. Dylan was almost as excited about the concert and seeing Brian's friends again as she was about having a week of alone-time with her boyfriend.

"I would say so, yeah. At least about the whole 'changing her mind' thing. Maybe not so much about the 'she hasn't shown up' thing."

"Yeah. I'm going to try her cell again. I'm sorry I bothered you with this. I'll talk to you later."

"Don't you dare hang up on me!" I snapped. I took a deep breath, reminding myself that Brian had to be worried and distracted. "You can't just get me worried and then leave me hanging, Brian."

"Sorry."

"Psssh. Is her phone going straight to voice mail? And are you sure you're at the right terminal, have the right flight info?"

"Dylan sent me a copy of her flight information. I'm in the right place, and her plane definitely landed a half hour ago."

"And her phone?"

"Straight to voice mail."

I nodded, even though I knew Brian couldn't see it. I took another swig from the water bottle while I collected my thoughts.

"Okay, so. The voice mail thing tells me her phone's off, like I said. But she should have tried to call you by now if she thinks you guys have missed each other."

"Right."

I tucked my feet under me on the bench, what we used to call "sitting Indian style" before the term became politically incorrect. "Well, hell. I don't know what to tell you, Brian," I said. "No, wait. I wonder if she missed her flight. It wouldn't be the first time."

"If she did miss her flight, and she's in the air—"

"Then you won't be able to get her on her cell. And you'll be left in limbo for who knows how long." I waited a beat, and then added, "But it just so happens that she trusts her best friend way too much. As soon as I can get to a computer, I can find out if her flight got changed." I unfolded my legs and stood up, digging in my pocket for my keys. I wanted to get home and find out where the hell Dylan had disappeared to.

"Could you tell someone else how to find out?"

I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder so I'd have my hands free to gather up my role-play equipment. "Not that I don't trust you, but I feel weird about giving you Dylan's info."

"I didn't mean me," Brian said. "I was actually thinking of London. He's probably at his computer right now. But I guess the same's true of him."

"Even more so," I agreed. I managed to hit the trunk button on my key fob without dropping any of my gaming gear, but fumbled the phone when I shoved my bundle of weapons and armor into the trunk.

"I can be home in 20 minutes," I said, as I unlocked the car. I stopped, turning to lean my back against the car. "No. You know what? When we hang up, try Dylan's cell again. If you don't get an answer, have London call me. If you do get an answer, have Dylan call me. Okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. Someone will call you back in...ten minutes, either way."

"Perfect," I said. "Good luck, Brian."

"Thanks."

We hung up, and I got into my car. I turned on the radio for something to concentrate on, but didn't start the engine. I didn't want to try to drive and talk on my cell at the same time, so I stayed put.

I passed the time imagining how the conversation would go if it were London who called. Everything I knew about him I had learned from Dylan: he drummed for DPS and he was one of Brian's closest friends. I had heard a few of the band's songs, and I liked the music well enough. The mellow pop-rock sound didn't seem to fit Brian all that well; it didn't fit the mental picture I had of London Dahlbeck, either. I'm not sure why, but I pictured London as a modern Mick Jagger. I could imagine him raising hell and terrorizing the staff in some high-class hotel, though as far as I knew DPS hadn't ever caused any scandals.

Less than ten minutes later, my phone rang again, startling me back to the here and now. The number wasn't Dylan's.

"Hello?"

"Hi. This is London. Dahlbeck? Brian Kelly asked me to call you."

The voice wasn't at all what I had been expecting. Instead of having a Jagger-esque British accent, he sounded...normal. More than ever, I found myself wondering what kind of people would name their son London, especially paired with Dahlbeck. Elementary school must have been so much fun for this poor guy.

"Hi, London. Brian wanted me to pair my brain with your computer."

London laughed. "You make it sound like I don't have the brains to pair with it."

"Well, I have no proof to the contrary," I said. I shook my head. "Prove it to me. Help me figure out where Dylan is."

"I'll do what I can," he promised. "Okay, I'm guessing your plan is to look at her flight information on the airline website?"

"Yep. And I'm sure you know that—"

"We're going to need a res number, yeah. We hacking her email?"

I smiled. He was already proving himself sufficient in the brains department. Good. "It's not hacking if she gave me her password," I replied.

"True enough. Where'm I going?"

I told him which website she used for email and gave him her login and password. I could hear the click-clacking of keys as he followed my directions.

"I'm in," he said. "Okay. She's got a billion little folders in here, and I have no idea what most of the labels mean. I mean 'work' and 'Brian' are pretty self-explanatory, but I don't see. Oh wait, maybe."

"Try search," I suggested.

"Too late. I found the confirmation."

"You got lucky."

"I'm good at that," he said.

I laughed. "The advantages of being in a band."

For a moment there was utter silence, not even the clacking of his computer keyboard coming through the phone. Then, "That is so not what I meant."

"Sure," I said.

"I mean, I'm not denying that I'm good at 'getting lucky,' but that really isn't what I meant." Before I could think of a witty retort, he said, "Fuck. She didn't change her flight. She checked in. She should have been on that plane. She should be in Orlando."

"Fuck," I agreed, leaning my forehead against the steering wheel. "Now what?"

London took his time replying. After a moment, he spoke, his voice low and somber, "It's too soon to file a missing person report."

"And the airline won't tell us anything," I added. "But I can't just sit here and wonder."

We spent another quiet minute or two thinking.

"Elizabeth?"

"I'm here," I said.

"Can you get to Orlando?"

"What?"

"Can you get away from work or whatever and get on a plane to Orlando today?"

"I...I don't know. Maybe. I mean, if I knew it would help."

"Elizabeth, I need you to trust me on this. I need you to get a flight to Orlando as soon as you can. And if you have something of Dylan's, I need you to bring it."

I sat up, rubbing my forehead. "What do you mean? What sort of something?"

"Just about anything that belongs to Dylan should work."

_Work for what?_ I wondered. Aloud I said, "I have some heels I stole from her. And probably some of her books. I don't know."

"I don't think that's it," he said. It sounded like he might be talking to himself instead of me, so I didn't ask what he meant. "Just look around and see if there's anything. I think you'll know what to bring when you see it."

"You're kind of freaking me out."

"Yeah," London said. "But I'm not going to apologize for it. Not this time. Just book that flight. If you can't afford it, call me or Brian back, and we'll deal with it."

I wanted to get huffy, to explain that I'm an independent woman and didn't need his money. But truthfully, finances and I had not been friends lately. The perils of being a college student at thirty-five.

"I'll let you know," I promised. "And I'll make sure to leave a paper trail, just in case."

London gave a little, humorless laugh. "Yeah. Good idea."

"I should go. Looks like I have some packing to do and a flight to arrange."

"Hold on a minute," London said. I could hear keys clicking again. "There's a flight leaving from Bush Intercontinental in a little over two hours. Can you make it?"

I did the math in my head. "Yeah, I can make it."

"Hold on," he said again. More typing sounds. "I need your full name."

"Elizabeth Kathleen Morgan. What are you doing? Wait. You're booking my flight?"

"Yup. Date of birth?"

I didn't even bother protesting. I just gave him all the information he asked for.

"You're booked. Itinerary's in your email."

"I don't even know what to say."

"Say 'bye' and hang up. I want to be sure you make your flight."

"Fair enough," I said with a little laugh. "Bye, London."

"Bye, Elizabeth. I'll see you in Orlando."

I don't remember the drive from the park back to my apartment. That should have worried me far more than it did. I more or less parked and then launched myself out of the car and across the parking lot to my front door. I fumbled the key into the lock, opened the door, and kicked it shut behind me as I started stripping off my role-play costume—belt, tabard, tunic. The jeans, though dirty from rolling on the ground, could stay, I decided. I dashed into the bedroom, grabbed my two carry-on bags from the closet, and started packing.

I do a lot of travelling, though usually by train or bus. I hate flying. Anyway, I was something of a pro at packing, even in a hurry. Comfortable, serviceable clothes—socks and underwear, bras, t-shirt, jeans. I remembered what Orlando weather could be like, even in the early spring, and packed a couple of pairs of shorts as well. I pulled off my hiking boots—too impractical for dealing with airport security—and traded them for my favorite pair of low-top Converse. The shoes, a gift from Dylan, were black with little skulls all over them. Some of the skulls had pink bows on top. A lovely blend of macabre and cutesy, they were totally me. I tugged on my favorite Red Chapter t-shirt and stepped into the closet to grab a jacket for the plane.

I didn't see my black leather jacket, the one that I defaulted to, especially when travelling. I sifted through the clothes on the racks, one hangar at a time, certain the jacket had to be lurking somewhere. Near the back of the closet, I pushed aside a garment bag—and stopped and stared for a moment. I moved the clothes on either side of the bag and twisted it on its hangar so I could reach the zipper. I opened the bag and pulled out one of the dresses inside.

Dylan and I had found the long black and white formal in a resale shop. It fit Dylan just right and made her look like a movie star from the Golden Age of the Silver Screen. I had urged her to buy it, assured her she'd have a chance to wear it if we ever got to go on the cruise we'd been planning for years. Less than a year later, we went on our cruise, exploring the islands of the Caribbean. We spent our first night onboard the ship hanging out in one of the lounges. It was there that we met Brian, not knowing at the time that he was the guitarist for a big-name rock band. Dylan and Brian hit it off from the very beginning. She'd been wearing the black and white formal the first time he kissed her. At the end of the cruise, the dress had gone into the garment bag with my formal and had ended up in my closet.

I realized London had been right; I knew this was the something I needed to take to Orlando, though I still didn't know why.

I took my dress out of the garment bag, tucked Dylan's back inside, and carefully folded the bag to fit into the rolling suitcase that was the larger of my two carry-ons. I moved on to gathering up the rest of my things—toiletries, computer, phone, iPod. Grumbling about the TSA, I went to the coat closet by my front door to dig out a fresh box of Ziploc bags...and there was my leather jacket. Later I would realize that if I'd known where I'd left the jacket, I wouldn't have found Dylan's dress.

Chapter Two

The drive to the airport passed in a blur. I parked in the hellaspensive garage and ran through the airport like one of those crazy people in romantic comedies. TSA slowed me down, but not too much. I made it to my gate with just enough time left to grab an overpriced bottle of water and fire off a few texts. I send my flight info to Brian and London and a cryptic message to my brother Alex: _"Starting weekend early. If you don't hear from me in the next 48 hrs, file a missing persons. Srsly. Getting on a plane. Don't blow up my phone."_

Then, just to be sure, I tried Dylan's cell. No answer. Straight to voice mail. Dammit.

I got lucky. The flight was nearly full, even on a random Tuesday in mid-April, but I managed to get an aisle seat. I'm not a big fan of window seats, at least not during takeoff or landing, and being squashed between two strangers is a special kind of hell. While we taxied, I said a little prayer for a safe journey. As we left the ground, I squeezed my eyes shut to block out the site of Houston falling away as we defied the laws of gravity, and I mouthed the words to the first song that popped into my head in order to keep from thinking about all the things that could go wrong during takeoff.

As soon as the "you may switch on your electronic devices" announcement sounded, I scrambled for my iPod and headphones. Listening to the engines and the murmur of passengers I could handle, but there were whining kids on my flight. And I could hear the flaps on the wings whirring and clunking. Yeah, no. No thanks. Flying scares me enough without hearing weird noises coming from vital parts of the plane.

I spent most of the three hours between takeoff and landing worrying: about Dylan, about crash landings, about missing class the next day. If worrying were an Olympic event, I'd gold medal, no doubt about it.

The funny thing about worry is that it makes time spin out and out and out. Those three hours felt like three days.

We landed ten minutes ahead of schedule, and by ten o'clock I had wrestled my luggage down the jetway and through the gate area to catch the train to the main terminal. Two minutes later, I stepped out into the chaos of Orlando International. I found a clear space of wall to lean myself and my suitcase against and switched on my cell phone. I was scrolling through my call history looking for Brian's number when someone stepped just a little too close to my personal bubble. I snapped my head up, and then looked up...and up. The guy who'd invaded my space towered over me. I knew in that moment how the Ewoks must have felt standing next to Chewbacca.

"Elizabeth?" Tall Guy asked.

I frowned up at him. "Do I know you?"

"We hacked your friend's email earlier," he replied, flashing me a wide grin.

"London?" I asked, as if I'd been hacking emails with a lot of strange men today. I admit, I was thrown. This guy looked more like your typical college kid than a hell-raising rock star. He couldn't look less like Mick Jagger. I shook my head to clear it and shifted, trying to find a more comfortable way to lean. Backpacks full of electronics do not make good cushions.

"I thought Brian was here alone. If you were here, then why all the phone tag?"

The grin faded and London looked away. "I wasn't here. I was in Denver when I talked to you, on a layover from LA. It's a long story."

I shrugged out of the backpack and let it drop to the ground at my feet. "I'll make time."

London sighed and rubbed his eyes. "The short version, then. I just had a feeling Brian needed me. So I jumped on a plane. I figured it couldn't hurt."

I opened my mouth to ask about the long version, but a familiar voice called my name. I turned to see Brian making his way toward us. He hadn't changed much in the months since I'd met him, though his dark, wavy hair had gotten long enough to tie back. I stepped around London and hugged Brian hard.

"No word?" I asked, though I knew what the answer had to be.

Brian just shook his head. I hugged him again and didn't pull away when he held onto me. Sometimes when the world goes to hell, you just need to feel someone's arms around you.

I turned my head so I could look at London without letting go of Brian. "What now?" I asked.

London opened his mouth, closed it, took a breath. "Now, we go find food. I'm starving."

With that, he slung my backpack over his shoulder, grabbed the handle of my rolling case, and made an "after you" gesture. Brian moved away, taking the lead. I took my suitcase from London, and to his credit, he didn't argue.

Brian led us to the parking garage, and London managed to squeeze my suitcase in beside his gear in the tiny trunk of Brian's rental car. The backpack stayed with me. I stared out the window, not really seeing anything, while London adjusted his seat and Brian dug out a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

"What do you want?" Brian asked, and I turned my attention from the window.

"Food," London said. "Anything that's not airplane food."

Brian leaned back in his seat, but didn't start the engine. I knew this game. I played it myself sometimes. The good old "we'll-just-sit-here-until-I-get-a-real-answer" game. Apparently London had lost this game a time or two, because he sighed and leaned his head back, too.

"What's near your hotel?" he asked.

"Disney World."

London sighed. "Food, Brian. What food is near your hotel."

"The hotel's right in the middle of fucking Disney World. That's all I can tell you."

"That's pretty vague, actually," I chimed in. "Which hotel...wait, are you at the Dolphin?"

"Yeah. Dylan mentioned wanting to stay there."

"It's an awesome hotel. We both fell in love with it," I said. "Let's see. There's a sushi place in the hotel. Well, in the Swan, but they're connected. I don't know how good it is, though. I didn't like sushi when I lived here." I paused to think for a second, aware that I was babbling but unable to stop myself. "There's a steak place nearby. Pizza by the slice on the Boardwalk. I really don't remember what else. We were too freakin' poor to eat anywhere near the Dolphin. We mostly did the fast food thing when we weren't eating sandwiches. But I know there's a few choices in the hotel."

"Hotel it is," Brian said and started the car.

"So after food, what then?" I asked.

"Then we find a private place to talk about what happens next," London said. I opened my mouth to reply, but it was like he knew what I was going to say before I said it. "Yeah, I know that we've got about as much privacy here as we'll get anywhere else, but trust me on this. We don't want to be in traffic during this discussion."

I gave a little nod and sat back in my seat, trying my best to be patient. It wasn't easy, but what could I do? I wasn't the one calling the shots here.

London switched on the radio to fill the silence as we drove across Orlando. I tried Dylan's cell again, with no luck. I checked my voice mail and found the expected rant from my brother. I texted him back, telling him where I was and that I was okay. I promised to call him when I had a chance, but right now I didn't have it in me. I didn't want to tell Alex about Dylan, not yet. She was his friend, too, and he'd kill me for not bringing him into this. But he had a job and a boyfriend to worry about. All I had were a handful of classes that I could skip for a couple days without missing too much. Worst case scenario, I'd retake them in fall semester and put off graduating for a few more months. Worst case scenario for Alex could end with him unemployed and alone. I'd handle things myself.

Brian had checked into the hotel earlier in the day, so we went to his room to stow our gear so we wouldn't have to tote it while we scrounged up food. After dinner I'd figure out what to do about my own place to stay, but for now, we needed to eat and to figure out what to do next.

London decided on one of the cafe-type places in the hotel, the kind that has open seating and serves burgers and fries. It would be a lot quicker than any of the nicer restaurants, allowing us to eat and then get on with whatever we were going to do about finding Dylan. I sat across from the boys, feeling like the new kid in school while they made small talk about London's flight and what their band mates were up to. Being the third wheel, I didn't have much to do other than chew and stare, so that's what I did.

Even though Brian kept up his end of the conversation and seemed cool and calm, I could see the strain of worry around his eyes. He and Dylan had clicked from the start. I'd never believed in love at first sight until I'd watched the two of them fall ass-over-teakettle for each other in the space of a week.

In a very different way, Brian and I had clicked as well. From the first, he'd struck me as a truly nice guy, the kind that I, jaded as I was, had decided didn't exist. I've never liked talking to strangers, especially men who looked like Brian—long, wavy hair; dark, soulful eyes; abs you could break bricks on; killer smile—but I found him easy to kid around with. Add to that the fact that he treated my best friend like a princess. Yeah, Brian was good people; I had no doubt about that.

I'd had a hard time reconciling my mental image of London with anyone who could be best buds with a guy like Brian. Faced with the reality, I could picture it just fine. I could imagine people placing London in the role of little brother, even though he couldn't look less like Brian. Where Brian was dark—dark hair, darker eyes, and deeply tanned skin—London had icy blue eyes, a peaches and cream complexion most women would kill for, and hair like sun-darkened honey.

London smiled at me, and I realized he had caught me staring. I looked away for a second, but then made myself meet his eyes.

"So. Which one of you wants to tell me what the hell is going on." Yeah, I get belligerent when I'm embarrassed. Sue me.

"Not here," London said, polishing off the last over-sized bite of his burger.

I wanted to kick him. Instead, I pushed back from the table and stood. I couldn't give into the temptation to kick if I wasn't in kicking range. The boys stood, too, and after we dealt with trash and trays, we headed back to Brian's room.

London sat cross-legged on the foot of the king-sized bed, giving no thought to putting his shoes on the white duvet. I pulled the chair out from the desk and turned it to face him. Brian stood near me, leaning against the desk.

Silence stretched out until it seemed unbreakable. London appeared to be at a loss.

"Sometimes," Brian said, his hushed voice crashing like a wave into the quiet, "sometimes London has these hunches. He just...knows things."

London shook his head and looked up at Brian. They managed to carry on a whole conversation without saying a word, but I had no idea what was said. London looked down, like he suddenly found the carpet fascinating, and Brian moved to sit beside him on the bed. For moral support, I figured.

"I don't know where to start," London admitted. He sounded young and tired and sad. I rolled my chair a little closer so I could lay my hand on his knee. He managed the barest hint of a smile.

"Maybe at the beginning?" Brian suggested.

"It doesn't matter where you start, London," I disagreed, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice. "My best friend is missing. I'm sitting here with my hands tied, waiting for you guys to clue me in to what the hell is going on. Just start talking and see what comes out."

He came a little closer to a real smile this time, but it still didn't touch his eyes. He took a deep breath, and then he said, "I haven't told very many people what I'm about to tell you. My family knows, of course. Brian knows. And Kent and Adrian," he said, naming two of the three other members of their band.

"Not what's his name?" I asked, trying to remember the other band member.

"Jimmy," London said. "And no. He's kind of a new addition to the band. I haven't known him nearly as long as the other guys, and I guess I just haven't felt right telling him."

Now that he'd mentioned it, I remembered Dylan telling me that Jimmy had only been with the band the past couple of years. He was kind of their jack-of-all-trades: taking over rhythm guitar to leave Adrian free to work the crowd, chiming in on keys or percussion when needed, that sort of thing. Dylan had also told me that he was quite a bit younger than the rest of the boys in the band. Given how young London looked, I figured Jimmy had just graduated from Huggies. I figured his youth didn't do much to inspire London's confidence in whatever secrets he had.

"Whatever it is, it's okay," I assured him. And somehow, I believed it.

London covered my hand, his fingers curled lightly around mine. I moved so that we were really holding hands, and he gave a little squeeze as if to say "thank you."

"My mom says I used to say and do some pretty strange stuff when I was a little kid. I'd talk to people who weren't there or talk about things I shouldn't have had a clue about. My parents thought I was just imaginative and observant," he said, making air quotes with his free hand. "The older I got, the weirder I got. I stopped talking to invisible people, but sometimes I would just...know things. Like, one night I woke up crying, because I knew my granddad had died. Mom didn't get the call from Grandma until a couple of hours later. Heart attack, out of the blue. But I'd known about it before Mom did."

I squeezed his hand. I'd heard enough stories about this sort of thing that it didn't shock or surprise me. Hell, I'd had a couple of similar experiences myself.

"When I was fourteen, Jerry disappeared."

"His brother," Brian explained.

"He was 18, and the police thought he had just run away. But my parents are awesome. I mean, we fought with them, yeah, but run away? From what?" London shook his head. "We were all pretty freaked out. No one had heard anything from him—his friends, his girlfriend," he closed his eyes, remembering.

"His girlfriend came over, just needing to hang out with the family, you know? And she showed me the ring he'd bought her. A promise ring, because he couldn't afford an engagement ring yet. She showed me that ring, and I had one of my feelings. I asked her to hand me the ring, and the second she laid it in the palm of my hand, I knew Jerry was more or less okay. I didn't know where he was, but I knew he was alive."

London swallowed a couple of times, and Brian got up without being asked to grab a bottle of water from the minifridge. He uncapped it and handed it to London, who gave a little nod of thanks before sucking down a couple of gulps of water.

"The police found Jerry the next day. He'd been in an accident a couple of towns over, and he hadn't woken up yet." He gave me a little smile. "The story has a happy ending. I'm telling you because you look nervous."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. In the middle of retelling a traumatic story, and the guy's quoting The Princess Bride at me. Or maybe misquoting. I wasn't sure. "Maybe a little concerned," I quoted back at him.

He smiled. "Jerry made it through just fine. Didn't marry the girlfriend, though."

I said the first thing that popped into my head. "How did your brother manage to end up with a normal name like Jerry?"

It was London's turn to laugh. "It's short for Jericho."

I grimaced. "I'm sensing a theme."

"Oh, yeah," London said. "Florence, Jericho, London, and Holland. I got lucky."

"Wow. And I thought being called 'Liz' was bad."

"Not 'Liz,' huh?"

"Good God, no. Elizabeth. Or Morgan. If that's still too long, it's Em. But never Liz, or Liza, or Libbie, or Emmy, or just about anything else anyone's ever come up with."

"Good to know."

Brian made a small, amused sound, drawing my attention. He smiled at me, and I finally got a hint of the man I remembered. "That bloke on the boat," he explained.

It took a moment for me to figure out what he was talking about, but when I remembered, it surprised a laugh out of me. "I'd forgotten about that. The creepy old guy who serenaded me that one night. The one who kept calling me Liz, no matter how many times I told him not to."

We'd managed to clear the tension in the room, at least.

London stretched out on the bed. His hair brushed the headboard, and there were only a couple of spare inches at the foot. The guy really was freakishly tall. Not, like, Yao Ming tall, but still.

"Come on," he said, patting the bed beside him. "It's still storytime."

With a mental shrug, I kicked off my shoes and crawled up onto the bed to sit with my back against the headboard. London wiggled around to pillow his face against my thigh. It should have been an uncomfortably intimate gesture coming from someone I had just met, but this felt...different. It reminded me of Dylan's niece curling up on my lap during a scary movie. I hesitated for just a second before reaching out to brush the hair back from London's face. For a moment he just lay there, eyes closed. Then he scooted back to his own space, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling.

"So, yeah. The whole thing with Jerry. His girlfriend spread the story around school, the whole ring, premonition thing. I was already a geek, and now I was a freak, too. I tried to pass it off as a coincidence, that I was just trying to make Celia feel better. And the other kids bought it, mostly. But one of my teachers knew it was bullshit. She'd seen the signs before."

"What signs?" I asked.

London didn't answer. He just stared at the ceiling, avoiding my eyes.

"Signs of magic," Brian explained.

"Magic?" I gave Brian my best "are you shitting me" expression.

"I prefer psychokinesis," London said. "Makes me sound like less of a crackpot."

He had a point. Psychokinesis sounded a lot more credible than magic.

"So, you're like a seer or something?"

London sighed and sat up. "Something like that. It's more than that, though. And it's hard to define, or explain. But I have certain natural abilities. After my teacher figured that out, she convinced me to learn how to control it. That lasted right up until one of the kids at school found out and started rumors about me trying to start a cult. I wanted to fit in more than I wanted to learn to deal with my freaky powers."

"I get that," I said, and I did. "But you did learn a little, right? That's why you wanted me to bring something of Dylan's, so you could do whatever it is you do."

"Yup."

I scrambled off the bed and dragged the garment bag out of my rolling case. London stepped up beside me just as I pulled the dress out of the bag, but it was Brian who reached out to touch the soft fabric.

The pain in his eyes hit me like a fist to the gut. I put my arm around him, and he hugged me to him.

London grasped Brian's shoulder in what seemed to be both more and less than a comforting gesture. He reached his other hand toward the dress, and the second his fingers brushed the fabric his knees buckled and he nearly took us all down. Somehow Brian and I managed to keep London on his feet, and Brian got him to the chair.

"Fuck," London breathed. A tense moment ticked by before he came back to himself. "She's okay."

Brian let himself fall then, sinking to his knees, leaning on London for support. I slid down the wall behind me to sit on the floor.

"What just happened?" I asked.

"Too much emotion," London said. "Strong emotions make it easier for me to see things."

"That's what the whole touching thing was about," I realized. "Why you put your hand on Brian's shoulder before you touched the dress."

"Yup. Contact helps, too. But I just wasn't ready for that much of a reaction. I was touching both of you, and you both have really strong feelings for Dylan. I didn't think about that." He pushed the chair back a little and got to his feet. "Didn't even really realize you were touching me, honestly. At least not until after it was too late to do anything about it."

I replayed the scene in my head and remembered that, yes, the arm I'd had around Brian's waist had brushed against London when he reached for the dress. "So, emotional overload?"

"Yup, pretty much."

"I think 'emotional overload' is the phrase of the day," Brian said as he let London help him up.

"No shit," I agreed. "So Dylan's okay. But how do we find her? Have you got some kind of mystical tracking device in your arsenal?

London shook his head. "Not something I know how to do," he admitted. "And I don't really talk to anyone who's involved in that stuff. I think I can find some help, but it'll take time." He rubbed his eyes. "Right now, I need a drink. It may sound shitty under the circumstances, but I really, really need a fucking drink. And some air. I'm going to find the bar."

"It doesn't sound shitty," I assured him. "It sounds human. You do what you have to do to cope when the shit hits the fan."
Chapter Three

London's coping mechanism involved getting a drink in the bar. Brian's, working out in the hotel gym. Assuring them both I'd be fine, I shooed them out of the room. I still needed to find a place to stay, and I needed to get rid of a day's worth of grime and stress.

Thirty minutes of steamy shower later, I felt halfway human again. I pulled on undies and my PJs—a faded t-shirt and Star Wars boxers—and set my laptop on the desk. I'd find a hotel and the number for a cab company, and then I'd worry about real clothes.

I had gotten about ten seconds into my hotel search when London let himself back into the room. "Find the bar?" I asked.

"It's hard to miss," he said, crossing the room to drop a key card on the desk beside me.

I nodded and tapped a new search into my web browser. For a minute or two the only sounds were the hum of air conditioning and the clicking of laptop keys. Another new search, even though I had a feeling I wouldn't find much in my price range. "College student" is not a high-paying job.

"Hey," London said, crouching down beside my chair so we were more or less at eye level.

I dragged my attention from the computer to look at him.

"Are you doing what it looks like you're doing?" he asked.

"If it looks like I'm trying to find a place to sleep tonight, then yes."

He reached up to brush a stray lock of wet hair back from my eyes. "There's a perfectly good bed right behind you."

"Yeaaah. I don't think it's big enough for the three of us."

London eyeballed the bed. "I think it might be."

"London." He cut me off before I could say any more.

"It's not some weird come-on. I just think we should all stick together tonight."

"One of your feelings?"

"Partly. Mainly just common sense. And maybe a little paranoia."

A smile tried to turn up the corners of my mouth, but it ended up as more of a tired twitch.

"If you really just can't stay in here with us—and I'd kind of get that—then I'll go down and see if I can get another room close to ours."

It was a generous offer. I knew the Dolphin's rooms didn't come cheap. There was no way I was going to let someone foot a bill that size. Especially when I didn't really want to be alone anyway.

"Only girl or not, I'm not sleeping in the middle," I told him. "I get claustrophobic."

"Duly noted," London said, standing up.

I turned back toward my computer, not because I wanted to look at it but because I didn't want to look at London. Or, well, because I wanted to not want to look at London. I managed to ignore him as he moved around the room, doing who knows what. When I heard the shower running, I knew it was safe to look up. I shut down the computer and crawled into bed. Sleep probably wouldn't come any time soon, but maybe I could pretend well enough to avoid any more weirdness.

I'm something of an insomniac at the best of times, but it had been a long day. Worry and travel both take a lot out of a person. I faded into sleep before I could finish my bedtime prayers, and even though voices and other sounds dragged me near the surface a time or two, hours passed before I woke. I might have slept the night through if someone hadn't stolen the duvet, but the room was colder than the walk-in cooler at my last job, and I woke shivering. The soft glow of a laptop showed me London sitting at the desk. That left Brian as the blanket thief. Sure enough, there he was, wrapped up like a human burrito. Dylan had the same annoying habit. The bedcover tug-of-war between those two would be epic.

Shivering, I climbed out of bed, hoping there might be a spare blanket stashed in the closet or the dresser. I lucked out, finding one on the closet shelf. London barely spared me a glance as I twirled the blanket around me like a cloak and headed back toward the bed. I stopped behind him, curious what had him up on his computer at this ungodly hour of day. The bluish light lit his face in an otherworldly glow.

Otherworldly.

Is that what London's powers were? Or were they just another talent, like drawing or doing math in your head? I shook off the question and sat down on the end of the bed.

"Can't sleep?" I asked.

"Haven't tried. I wanted to try to figure out our next step."

"Wouldn't our next step be filing that missing person report tomorrow?"

London pushed back from the desk a little and turned the chair to face me. "About that. Turns out that the whole twenty-four hour waiting period thing is a myth. That's the good news. The bad news is, we can't file a missing person report."

"Why the hell not?"

"Since Dylan lives in Dallas, the report would have to be filed there. In person."

"Well, damn," I said.

"Yeah," London agreed turning back to the computer.

"So now what?" I asked, looking over his shoulder.

"I tracked down my old mentor," he said, gesturing at a chat window with the mouse pointer. "Turns out insomnia is pretty common for us freaks."

"You say 'freak' like it's a bad thing." I looked a little closer. "Can Shelley help us find Dylan?"

"Not directly," he said, logging out and shutting down the browser. "But she knows a lot of...practitioners, is the word she uses. She's gonna make some calls in the morning and get back to us."

Patience is not my strong suit, but I knew that calling people in the dead of night wasn't a good way to get them on your side. So we'd wait.

London swiveled the desk chair away from the desk, rubbing the back of his neck. "You've gotta be shitting me," he said, his eyes on the Brian-burrito.

"Why do you think I'm awake at four in the morning?"

He just shook his head.

Twenty minutes later, he'd managed to get Brian awake enough to unass the duvet and we were all snuggled under its downy goodness, close but not touching. I turned my back to the boys and tried to sleep, but I just couldn't shut down my brain. The first thin, grey light of dawn peeked in around the curtains before my jumbled thoughts gave way to even more jumbled dreams.

Chapter Four

At first, I wasn't sure whether I was awake or still dreaming. The soft sounds of someone strumming an acoustic guitar drifted through the room, and someone—presumably not the same someone, but you never know in dreams—was using me for a human teddy bear.

Reality asserted itself slowly, and I eased out from under London's arm, trying not to wake him. I gave Brian a little wave as I passed him on the way to the bathroom, where I spent a good few minutes splashing water on my face, trying to wash away my sleepiness.

I was drying my face when I heard a cell phone ring. It wasn't my cell; mine plays the Imperial March. This one sounded like the mating call of some kind of robotic alien. _Let it be Dylan_ , I thought as I dashed back into the room.

But Brian had gone back to picking out notes on his guitar. It was London who had answered his cell. Mumbling into the phone, he fought his way free from the duvet and wandered out into the hall in his pajamas.

"The girlfriend?" I asked, gesturing toward the door.

Brian shook his head. "His mum, maybe. He's between mistakes right now."

"Ouch."

"It's just the truth. It's like he goes out of his way to find girlfriends who won't stick around."

"Some people are like that," I said, making my way to the desk chair.

"He wasn't always. It's like he's given up on finding anything real."

"That's kind of awful," I said. "Is it the whole 'rock star' thing?"

"It's the whole 'magic' thing. He actually told a couple of his exes about it. Girls he was serious about. The first one thought he was mental, wanted him to see a shrink. But Julia was worse."

"What's worse than having your girlfriend think you're psycho?"

"She believed him. She wanted him to learn how to control his powers. She said he'd been given a gift and he should use it to help others. She wanted him to be a superhero."

"But he just wanted to be himself," I guessed. "And that wasn't enough for her. And she broke things off."

"Yeah. But even worse, she made him doubt himself. Made him feel guilty for not being the hero she wanted him to be."

"What a bitch," I said. "No one has a right to tell someone else what to do with his life. Who the hell died and made her God?"

Brian flashed me a smile and went back to playing his guitar. Guess story time was over.

"It's too early in the morning for Pink Floyd."

"No such thing," Brian disagreed. "Besides, it's past noon."

I sighed, resigned to listening to him play one of the most depressing—and beautiful—songs in the history of rock music. Leaning back against the wall, I watched Brian for a moment while I gathered my thoughts. I knew I needed to fill him in on what London had learned during his internet search, but I wasn't sure where to start. I followed the advice I'd given London the night before and opened my mouth to see what came out.

"Turns out we're in the wrong state to file a missing persons report," I said. Tact and I are not friends until I'm fully awake and often not even then. "It has to be filed back in Dallas. In person." I watched varied emotions flit across Brian's face before he settled on resignation. "I'm going to have to talk to my brother at some point today and tell him what's going on. I'll see if he can work on things from that end," I added.

Brian gave me a solemn nod and then turned his attention back to the guitar.

I grabbed my laptop and went back to bed, propping up on a giant mound of pillows. In the first rush of panic, I hadn't been thinking clearly. I still wasn't, but sleep had blown a little of the fog away, and it was time to play P.I.

Starting with Dylan's email accounts, I combed through every internet source I could think of, looking for some clue. Email first, then the social networking sites. I took another look at the airline info, even though I trusted London to know his way around a computer. Then I moved on to Dylan's bank account.

"Well, Dylan made it to DFW, at least," I said.

Brian stopped playing and looked up at me.

"$3.56 charged to her debit card at Hudson News, DFW. Probably water and a Goodbar for the plane. Nothing after that, though." I leaned my head back against the headboard, looking up at the ceiling.

"Means she made it through security there," Brian said, setting the guitar aside.

"Yeah. Which means she probably was on that damned plane. Which means she had to have made it to Orlando."

"Then where the hell is she?" Brian rubbed his hands over his face.

I didn't know what to say. A knock on the door saved me from having to think about it. London had staggered out of the room without a key, and I didn't even get the chance to give him a hard time about it.

"We gotta go," he said before the door even closed behind him.

"Go where?"

"No time. I'll explain in the car. Just get dressed," he told me, digging through his suitcase. He started dragging off his PJs right then and there, not the least bit shy about it. Not that he had any reason to be.

I grabbed my suitcase and hid in the bathroom to change. I pulled on real clothes, ran a brush through my hair, and then stopped. Why the hell was I jumping to do what London said without any explanation? I was getting pretty damned tired of all the mystery and lack of communication.

"Where exactly are we going?" I asked as I stepped out of the bathroom.

"Catching a flight to Key West," London answered, shoving what looked like a passport into his back pocket.

"We're doing what?" Brian asked. I was glad he'd spoken first. My own question wouldn't have been nearly so polite.

"Shelley found someone who can help us, but he lives in Key West. And he refuses to come to the mainland, so we're going to him."

I flopped down in the desk chair and reached for my shoes. "And we're all going why?"

"We don't need anyone else going missing," Brian said. "We stick together."

"I knew you were going to say that," I said with a sigh. I gave my backpack a once over, making sure I had my ID, money, and iPod.

"Grab Dylan's dress, too," London told me.

I did as I was told, carefully rolling the dress into a cylinder and tucking it into my backpack. Fussing over wrinkles seemed like a silly, girly thing to do right then, but I couldn't seem to help myself. That done, we trooped out, headed to Key West to see a man about some magic.

London used his phone to book our flight online while Brian wove his way through Orlando. We still had to deal with the ticket counter to pick up our boarding passes, and that small delay nearly made us miss our plane. My relief at making the flight turned to near-panic as I followed Brian up the jetway, visions of turboprops and seaplanes dancing in my head. Key West is about the size of a postage stamp, and I wasn't sure the airport could handle jumbo-jets. My panic faded as we stepped onto the plane; we were flying to Key West on the airborne equivalent of a VW Bug, but at least it didn't have pontoons or propellers.

The boys had sprung for business class seats, the closest thing the baby jet had to first class. A glance back into economy, and I knew it was a good thing. I'd have felt a little cramped in those seats, but London-the-giant would've been riding with his knees against his forehead. Brian took a seat next to a grey-haired man who looked like the CEO of somewhere important. London and I were in the row behind them.

"You want the window?" London asked.

If we'd been stuck in steerage, I might have taken the window seat to give him the extra legroom. I'm nice like that. But I figured he'd be okay in these roomier seats, especially since we'd be on the ground in Key West in about an hour.

"It's all yours," I told him, and he didn't protest.

The flying Bug began to taxi before I'd even gotten my safety belt fastened. We hit a bump, and I grabbed for the armrest. I made myself let go, forced myself to breathe and relax. We were still on the ground, still just driving around the airport toward the runway. There'd be plenty of time to panic after we were cleared for takeoff.

Logically I knew we probably wouldn't encounter anything worse than bad turbulence. I don't know the exact odds of being in a plane crash, but it's probably about as likely as winning the lottery. With the lotto, you can't win if you don't play. I looked at flying the same way: you can't die in a plane crash if you stay on the ground. Odds against us dying or not, I couldn't change how I felt. Phobias aren't about logic. They aren't about anything really. They just are.

The attendants finished their safety instruction spiel, and the pilot came over the intercom, telling the crew to get ready for takeoff. That's always my cue to flip out, though I'm pretty ninja about it. Dylan can always tell that I'm freaked, but the flight crew and other passengers remain blissfully ignorant.

Sending up a silent prayer for a safe journey, I gripped the armrests again and squeezed my eyes shut. For some reason, I always think I'll be less aware of leaving the ground if I can't see it happening. It never really works, but it does help some.

"Hey," London said, his voice quiet and calm the way you'd talk to a spooked animal. "You okay?"

"No." Not even a little bit.

London touched my hand, and I jumped. I made the mistake of turning to look at him and saw the runway rushing past outside the window. I closed my eyes again, only to open them a moment later in surprise as London took my hand in his. He smiled at me and gave my hand a little squeeze. Last night, I had offered him this small comfort while he told his story. Now he offered it back to me. I took it.

Soon enough we were safely in the air. The pilot gave the all-clear, telling us it was safe to move about the cabin and turn on electronic devices, and I shifted down out of panic mode. London let go of my hand, and I felt a pang of disappointment that I wanted to kick myself for. I dug out my iPod and my headphones, just as London was doing. Headphones on and mellow playlist chosen, I settled back against the seat and tried to pretend I was on a bus.

A moment later, I was back to wanting to kick myself, this time for the little thrill that went through me when London took my hand again. I can be such a girl sometimes.

Chapter Five

For some people, music is just noise, pleasant sound to fill up the silence or drown out what they don't want to hear. To me, it's much more than that. Music can energize me, soothe me, motivate me. Make me laugh, make me cry, make me see things in a new way. It can make me think or quiet my mind.

Right then, I needed to disengage my brain for a while. Even in sleep, Dylan hadn't been far from my thoughts. The details of my dream hadn't stayed with me, but the overall sense of danger and loss had. I couldn't stop wondering where she was, how she was, and what the hell was going on. There were no answers to my questions—not yet—and I needed a little quiet time in my head.

Closing my eyes, I let the music wash over me. The songs didn't drown my worries, but they did manage to mute them. I floated on a sea of mellow rock for a while. Then the track changed again, and I recognized the song as one of DPS's. And something clicked in my brain.

I paused my iPod and tugged the headphones down to hang around my neck. Beside me, London looked like he might be sleeping. He hadn't gotten much rest the night before, so if he was asleep, I didn't want to wake him. Then again, he was still holding my hand, his grip tighter than it should be if he were asleep. Either way, I needed to talk to him. He might be able to answer one of my questions. An important one.

For a moment, I debated how to get his attention. I opted for just leaning into him. With the armrest between us, all I really did was press my arm against his, but it worked. He tugged out his earbuds and looked at me, waiting to see what I wanted.

Keeping my voice low, I asked, "When you did that whole thing with Dylan's dress. Could you tell if she was hurt?"

A slight frown creased his brow and turned down the corner of his mouth. "Can we try not to talk about this stuff in public?" he asked. "But yeah. I meant it when I said she's okay."

"Not hurt?"

"Not hurt."

Tears stung my eyes, and I ducked my head to hide them. London let go of my hand then so he could tip my face back up.

"Don't fall apart on me," he said, looking into my eyes.

"Not making any promises," I replied.

The moment stretched out, and it might have crossed the line into romance movie cheesiness if London's stomach hadn't chosen just then to rumble like a Harley rally. He looked a little embarrassed, but I just grinned.

"Yeah, me, too," I said.

He gave me a tired smile. "So. Key lime pie for breakfast?"

I laughed. "Mmm, no. Conch fritters."

It was London's turn to laugh. "For breakfast?"

"It wouldn't be the first time," I told him. "Dylan and I...oh shit." Memories flooded in, and I felt like the world's most heartless bitch. The tears that had threatened earlier came back, spilling down my cheeks.

"She's okay," London said, brushing away my tears with the pad of his thumb. "She's okay, and we're going to find her."

I shook my head. He didn't understand, and I needed him to. Leaning in closer to him, I lowered my voice. "How much do you know about how Brian and Dylan met?"

"Everything, I think," he said. I saw it when he figured it out, his mouth dropping open in surprise. "The cruise. You guys went to Key West."

"Yeah. The three of us spent a day playing tourist together. His friend, Seth, had gotten hammered the night before and flaked out. We ran into Brian that morning when we were headed off the boat. He told us about Seth bailing on him, and we invited him to come with us. I think that's when it all started."

"That's what Brian told me. That he fell in love with her then. There."

The tears were back. London tried to wipe them away again, but I brushed him off, scrubbing at my face with the back of my hand.

"I kind of keep forgetting that I'm not the only one who cares about her," I admitted. "It was just the two of us for a long time. I mean, there were guys, but they never stayed. And our other friends. But I don't know. It was just different."

"I think I know exactly what you mean," he said, turning to glance up toward Brian's seat.

"You guys are like brothers," I said. Then, "No. You are brothers, or you see yourselves that way. It isn't about genetics."

London turned to look me in the eyes, like he was searching for something there. Whatever it was, he must have found it, because he nodded before snuggling back into his seat. "Yup. Brothers. It's amazing to me how many people just don't get that."

"That you can be closer to a friend than to your 'real' family?"

"Yup."

"I could rant for days about that," I said. "And about all the other ideas that society tries to impose on people. But I'll spare you."

London grinned. "I think this is where I'm supposed to be grateful, but honestly I'd like to hear you rant. Sometime when we're not ass deep in alligators."

"Be careful what you wish for," I said.

"Because I might get it? I'll take my chances." With that, he tucked his earbuds in again, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.

I slipped my own headphones on again and went back to trying not to think. But now I had pleasant thoughts—daydreams—to block out as well as my worries about Dylan.

A short time later, the captain announced our approach to Key West International. The "fasten seatbelt" sign came on, and we were asked to turn off our electronic devices. I tried to focus on breathing, since I could no longer hide in the music. Landing doesn't bother me as much as takeoff, but it's bad enough. For some reason, I was surprised all over again when London took my hand. I guess I just expected the nice guy act to fall away and show me the same sort of selfish dirtbag I was used to dealing with. But I was beginning to suspect that the nice guy thing wasn't an act at all.
Chapter Six

We touched down in Key West, smooth as glass, taxied a bit, and came to a stop. I wrestled my backpack into my lap, only to have London take it from me. The bag wasn't heavy or anything. I could handle it. And even just a few months before, I would have made sure any guy trying to carry my stuff knew that I was woman enough to deal with things on my own. Now, I knew that if London felt the need to play the gentleman, it wouldn't cost me anything to let him. I held up traffic so he could get out into the aisle and then followed him up to the door.

I'd never been to a small airport before, so the big portable metal staircase took me by surprise. Since we were safely on the ground, I could afford to find it charming and amusing. We all filed down the stairs to the tarmac and headed toward the terminal. Brian had gone ahead, and I half-jogged to catch up with him. He glanced at me as I drew up even with him, and I gave him a little smile. I slid my arm around his waist, and he drew me close against his side.

"It's hard. Being here again," he said.

"Yeah, it is."

He hugged me a little tighter before letting go so he could open the terminal door. We stepped inside, London right behind us, not knowing where to go.

"This guy we're meeting," I said. "Any idea what he looks like?"

London shook his head. "Shelley said he'd find me."

We decided the best place to look—or be seen—was in the waiting area, so we followed the signs there. No one milling around looked anything like a mage to me, but then neither did London. I dropped down onto one of the seats and took out my cell phone. I switched it on, hoping for a message from Dylan. Instead I found another voicemail from my brother.

I checked the time. Alex would be at work and with any luck I could just leave a message. Mentally crossing my fingers, I dialed Alex's phone and waited. Sure enough, it went to voicemail.

"Alex, it's me," I said. "First of all, my name is not 'Lizard.' Second, I told you not to blow up my phone. And last but not least, I will call you back when I can actually talk. And I swear I'll tell you everything."

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and looked up to see both Brian and London watching me. Brian had one eyebrow quirked up, like I'd done something weird. London looked like he was trying not to laugh.

"What?"

"Lizard?" Brian asked.

"Eavesdropping bastards," I muttered. London did laugh then. I was beginning to really like that sound. Dammit. I sighed. "My brother calls me that when he's pissed at me. He's been doing it since he was, like, two."

"Lizard," London repeated.

"Call me that, and I'm not responsible for your medical bills."

London turned away, laughing, to look around the terminal. He froze, and I followed his line of sight, wondering what was wrong. All I found was a man leaning against an otherwise vacant patch of wall. He looked right at home in the Keys, with his blond-streaked grey ponytail, boater's tan, and khaki cargo shorts, and nothing about him set off any warning bells. I couldn't figure out London's reaction, until the man let his gaze drift to London. There was something in the man's eyes that said he not only knew he was being watched but had been waiting for London to notice him. He pushed away from the wall and came toward us, hands in his pockets.

"You Shelley's stray?" he asked as soon as he was in earshot.

"Mr. Ashe?" London asked in reply.

"No 'Mister,'" the man said. "Just Ashe."

"London Dahlbeck." He held his hand out. I half-expected Ashe to ignore the gesture, but he surprised me by giving London's hand a firm shake.

"Wasn't expecting a tagalong."

London shifted my backpack a little on his shoulder as he turned toward Brian. "Brian Kelly," he said. "Dylan's boyfriend."

"Dylan's your missing friend?"

"Yes, sir."

Ashe shook hands with Brian, too.

London stepped around Brian to hold his hand out to me. He helped me to my feet, and then introduced me as Dylan's best friend.

While Ashe hadn't seemed to mind Brian's presence, I could tell he wasn't happy to have me there. I wasn't sure why, and I couldn't be bothered to care as long as he helped us.

Ashe glanced around at the three of us and shook his head. "Okay, Stretch," he said. "Bring your entourage and come with me." With that he turned and walked away, not seeming to care much if we actually followed.

It didn't take long to make our way from the waiting area to the nearby lot where Ashe had parked. He drove an aging El Camino; getting more than two people in the passenger compartment would be impossible. London tried to give me the passenger seat, but Ashe wasn't having it.

"Your girlfriend can ride in the back, Stretch. We got things to discuss."

London looked like he wanted to argue. I figured we didn't need that.

"It's fine," I told him. "I'm from Texas, remember? Grew up riding in the back of trucks. Go on."

I didn't give him another chance to argue but climbed over the tailgate and settled into a corner. Brian sat next to me and put his arm around me. One of the first things I'd learned about Brian back when we'd met was that he's a very hands-on kind of guy, though not in a sexual way. As a general rule, I don't like strangers hugging me, but it had never been an issue with Brian. In fact, his hugs were pretty awesome. A lot of guys I know do that one-arm-macho-man-hug or else stand three feet away and barely touch you. Brian hugs like he means it, probably because he does.

I braced my feet against the wheel-well and pressed up against Brian so I wouldn't bounce around the bed of the truck. Being this close to him for more than a few seconds, I realized that he'd been working out since the cruise. He hadn't gone all Schwarzenegger or anything. You couldn't even notice the muscle through the loose-fitting t-shirts he'd been wearing, but I was willing to bet he would look amazing without them.

Yes, I thought my best friend's boyfriend was hot. Looking isn't a crime. Besides, Dylan had always liked that we could giggle like high school girls about how sexy her man was. I hoped we'd get the chance to do that again soon.

Brian and I didn't try to talk as we bumped around Key West in the back of the El Camino. We weren't at highway speed, but there was still enough wind and noise to make talking not quite worth the effort. The ride didn't take long, anyway. I'm pretty sure you can circle the entire island in half an hour, and we were taking a direct route from the airport to a small house on—of all things—Elizabeth Street.

Ashe parked on the street in front of a cute little house wedged in between two larger, multi-story houses. Brian climbed out of the truck bed first and helped me down. The second my feet touched the ground, Ashe stepped up and pointed at the nearby cross-street.

"Down that street to your right you'll find restaurants," he said to Brian. "Stretch said you'd want to know. Bring back more than you think he'll eat. Magic takes a lot out of you. And grab me a Cuban and a Coke."

With that he turned and headed toward the house, motioning for London to follow him. Maybe I was seeing things, but to me it seemed like London wanted nothing more than to turn and run. Instead he rubbed a hand over his face and slung my backpack onto his shoulder.

"You okay alone with him?" Brian asked, nodding toward Ashe's retreating back.

"Sure," London said, though he didn't sound sure at all. He looked up at the sky, and I wondered if he were asking for help. "He wants to show me how to find her. Says it's my job, not his."

"He wants you to use your powers?" I asked.

"Yup."

"London," Brian said, his voice hardly more than a whisper, "you don't have to do this."

London turned his face from the sky and looked at his friend. "Yeah, I do. He won't help us any other way, and it's our best shot at finding Dylan." Brian started to say something else, but London cut him off. "It's okay, Brian. Really."

Brian stopped trying to argue. He just grabbed London in a fierce hug and then dragged me off in search of breakfast.

We had rounded the corner and were halfway down the next block when I got desperate and dug my heels in, literally. I braced myself and pulled, but Brian had a death grip on my hand. I don't think he had even realized it until that moment, when I threw my full weight backward and jerked his arm hard enough it had to have hurt like a son of a bitch. He didn't let go—I would have ended up busting my ass on the sidewalk if he had—but he relaxed his grip so he wasn't hurting me. When I was steady, he did let go, dragging both of his hands through his hair and flopping back against a weathered picket fence.

I didn't know what to do to help, so I just stood there feeling and looking like an idiot.

"He's run from this for so damn long," Brian said. "And here I drag him back into it."

For a moment, I just stood there, watching him and gathering my thoughts. It wasn't that I didn't care about London's emotional crisis, but Dylan could, for all we knew, be in very real, physical danger. Emotional fallout we could deal with, but if Dylan got hurt, we might not be able to fix that.

"Is there something I'm missing here, or is London really tweaked out about this magic stuff because of some stupid girl?"

That surprised a laugh out of Brian. "Not only that. He told you about finding out about his powers, about being treated like a freak in high school."

"That had to be, what? Ten years ago?"

"More like fifteen. But he learned then to hide what and who he is, and it took him a long time to trust anyone with all of himself. He opened up to Adrian, Kent, and me, and we accepted him. So he opened up to Kelley, and that was a minor disaster. Then Julia came along and really screwed him over."

"So he really is tweaking out about some stupid girl."

Brian smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes. "Have you ever been in love, Elizabeth? Really in love? Thought you'd found someone to spend the rest of your life with?"

"I don't believe in happily ever after."

"I'd forgotten that about you," he replied. "But if I remember right, you gave up on that happily ever after because some asshole broke your heart."

I shrugged. "It happens to everybody. I just don't feel the need to go through it again. Like, ever again."

"Yeah. But some of us don't give up easily."

I shrugged again. "Are you going to give me romantic advice or tell me what's going on with London?"

"If you've never really been in love, I'm not sure I can explain it to you. What it's like to find the one who you're sure you want to wake up beside every morning for the rest of your life. Or what it's like to find out that that she isn't who you thought she was. What it's like to watch all your dreams and plans crumble into dust."

I remembered that Brian had once been left at the altar, so to speak. I guess he knew better than anyone what London had dealt with in the aftermath of his relationship with Julia. But as I thought about my own failed relationships, I began to understand. I'd had a fair few boyfriends and even been engaged a couple of times. Had I ever really been in love? I didn't know for sure. But I knew how much it had hurt every single time things went wrong.

"I think I get it."

Something in my voice or face must have given away my thoughts and feelings, because Brian pulled me in for a hug.

"Then I think you know that it's not really just about a stupid girl," he said. "And it's gotten worse in the last year."

"Why now?" I asked, drawing away from Brian to lean beside him on the fence.

"My guess is that when he hit 30, he kind of got slapped in the face with his own mortality. Seeing his high school friends and his brothers getting married and realizing it's not in the cards for him on top of that whole not-getting-any-younger thing."

"It's not like there's some law that says you can't fall in love after 30."

Brian smiled. "Lucky for me." The smile faded, and I knew he was back to worrying about Dylan.

"So he's running from his magic because it's screwed up his life?"

For a moment, he didn't answer. "That's the story the way he tells it. There might me more to it, though. I think there's something he's keeping from us, but I could be wrong."

That there might be other considerations with this whole magic thing was something I hadn't taken into account.

"What London's doing, is it dangerous?" I asked

Brian brought his arms down to cross them tightly across his chest. "Maybe. I don't know."

That wasn't the answer I'd expected, and it wasn't one I wanted to hear. We didn't need anything—or anyone—else to worry about.

"He's made his decision, Brian," I said. It was the only argument I had. "You didn't ask him to do any of this. He said he was on his way to Orlando before you ever told him about Dylan."

"He was," Brian admitted. "But if he hadn't been, I'd have asked him to come. I'd have asked him to tell me if she was okay."

I laid my hand on his arm. "You wouldn't have had to ask. He wouldn't have let you ask, because he wouldn't want you to feel like you do right now."

I didn't know London well enough to say this for sure, but it was how things worked with me and Dylan, and I was willing to bet the same was true for London and Brian. It must have been, because Brian sighed and gave me a nod.

"You're right. Doesn't make me feel any better, but you're right."

"I think the only thing that'll make any of us feel better is finding Dylan." My stomach growled, and I added, "And maybe some food."

Brian managed a smile as he pushed away from the fence.

"And you really need to learn your right from your left," I added. "We're supposed to be going the other way."

We backtracked, me in the lead and Brian trailing after, each wrapped in our own thoughts. We crossed Elizabeth, now headed in the right direction, and then a second street. We neared another intersection, and this one looked familiar. I glanced at the street sign, and then took Brian's hand. We had reached Duval Street, the main drag of the tourist area and the street where we had spent that one amazing day with Dylan.

I knew if we turned either direction on Duval that we'd find plenty of places to eat, but I kept walking. I wanted to avoid stirring up any more memories than necessary, and I was sure Brian felt the same way. I guess I was right, because he kept his head down as we crossed Duval, trying not to notice, not to remember.

A little farther down the street, we came across a few restaurants. I found one advertising conch fritters and decided it would do. I got my fritters and Ashe's Cuban sandwich, and Brian ordered for himself and London. With the amazing smells coming from the carry-out bag, the walk back to Ashe's seemed ten times as long as the walk down had been.

The rumbly in my tumbly had gone from embarrassing to annoying to damned near deafening by the time we got back to Ashe's house. Brian had insisted on carrying everything—enormous food bag in one hand and drink carrier in the other—so that left me to knock on the door. London answered it. That perfect peaches-and-cream complexion was now more the color of the milk at the bottom of a bowl of Boo Berry cereal.

I barely had time to ask, "Are you okay," before he had me wrapped in his arms. He cradled my head against his chest, and I could hear his heart racing. I figured it was a good thing I was first through the door. I was pretty sure London would have reacted the same way regardless, and his clinging to Brian like this would have been a little awkward even for them.

"Yup. Peachy," he said, but I wasn't buying it.

"You don't lie worth a shit," Brian told him. "Never have."

"Don't want to talk about it," London said, and that I believed.

I stepped back so I could see London's face, and he let go of me. He looked embarrassed. Rubbing the back of his neck, he took a couple of deep breaths.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have grabbed you like that."

"It's okay," I assured him. "I'm okay. You didn't hurt me, or scare me, or piss me off. You are kind of worrying me though."

London nodded and rubbed his temple like he had a headache. I saw his hand shake as he reached out to brace himself against the doorframe. Brian looked as worried as I was.

Ashe sauntered into the living room, hands in his pockets. He looked at the tableau in the doorway and sighed. "In or out," he said. "Pick one. You're letting out all the bought air."

Brian and I looked at each other, not at all sure what to do. Ashe walked up to us and clapped a hand on London's shoulder. He was tall enough that it wasn't an awkward gesture.

"Shake it off, Stretch," he said. His voice held a hint of something I hadn't expected to hear: compassion. He stepped back and gestured for us to walk past. "Kitchen is straight through there," he said, pointing toward an open doorway. "We'll be along in a minute."

Not knowing what else to do, Brian and I went through to the kitchen. A breakfast table stood on one side of the small, neat room. Brian set down the food and drinks and then turned to me.

"Any idea what the hell that was all about?" he asked me.

I just shook my head.

"Shrinks call it cognitive dissonance," Ashe said as he stepped into the kitchen. "Big fancy way of saying his intuition is at war with what society says is acceptable. He'll be okay."

I watched as Ashe moved around the small space, fetching plates and forks and coasters for our meal. We could have eaten straight from the carry-out containers, but it was Ashe's house, and his dishes. If he wanted everything plated up, who was I to argue? I helped him set the table, and by the time we were done London had joined us. He looked a little more stable.

The four of us sat down, and Ashe surprised me again by saying grace before we all dug in. London concentrated on his food, his face grim. His hands were steady now, though, and he'd gotten some of his color back.

I turned my attention to my own food. I savored every bite of my fritters so I could brag to Dylan later, when we had her back safe and sound. I imagined myself telling her that she didn't have to scare us all half to death just to get me back to Key West. She'd call me a bitch, and I'll call her a hooker, and we'd both be really damned grateful to be there, in that moment.

Ashe's voice drew me out of my imaginings. He talked a little about Key West, a little about the callous destruction of the Everglades, a little about his restored El Camino. Drifting from topic to topic like a rubber raft at high tide, he filled up the awkward silence. And he never once mentioned magic.

Chapter Seven

After lunch—or breakfast, for most of us—Brian and I helped Ashe clear the table. None of us would let London help. Ashe insisted we leave the actual cleaning up for him to take care of later. He made coffee, which Brian and I both turned down. London just sat with his mug cradled in his hands, staring into it as if it held the answers to the great mysteries of life.

Ashe slid back into his chair, his own steaming cup of coffee in hand. "You ready for this?" he asked.

London shook his head but said, "As ready as I'll ever be." He looked up, first at Brian and then at me. "I don't want you guys here for this."

I didn't know what 'this' was or how long it might take, but I didn't like the idea of our little group being separated for too long. I was still trying to come up with a reasonable response when Brian asked, "Where is it we're supposed to go, exactly?" I'd never seen Brian angry, but I could tell he was headed that way in a hurry.

London's eyes went wide, and I wondered if he'd ever been on Brian's bad side before. But then London said, "That's not what I meant."

Color me confused. "What's not what you meant?"

"Brian thinks I wanted you guys to go back to Orlando without me. But no. No, we came here together for a reason."

"Oh." Sparkling wit, that's me.

I could almost see the anger bleed out of Brian. He sighed deeply and slumped in his chair. "I guess the question still stands," he said.

"If you weren't the broken-hearted boyfriend," Ashe said, "I'd offer you two the use of my guest room. I imagine that'd keep you both out of our hair for at least an hour."

Some girls might be offended by a statement like that, but I recognized it for what it was: a combination distraction tactic and off-kilter compliment. I smiled at him. "But he is," I said. "The broken-hearted boyfriend, I mean. So, any other suggestions?"

Ashe surprised me yet again. He smiled back at me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I can think of a fair few," he said.

"Any that aren't prurient?"

Ashe laughed. "Prurient. Are you trying to sound like a college textbook or a trashy romance novel?" He shook his head. "What I suggest is you two make yourselves at home. Living room couches are comfortable, TV setup is self-explanatory, and the bathroom is the first door on your right down the hall. I have a shop set up out back that'll suit me and Stretch."

London left the room, coming back just a moment later with Dylan's dress. He followed Ashe out the kitchen door to the back yard, and Brian and I wandered into the living room.

Brian settled in on the sofa, his guy instincts leading him straight to the remote control. I kicked off my Converse and curled up in a battered recliner, hoping to be able to rest for a while if not sleep. I closed my eyes and listened to small snippets of sound from the TV as Brian flicked through the channels. Though it wasn't the most soothing sound in the world, I could mostly ignore it. But when Brian settled on a channel, the sounds weren't ones I could ignore.

There is nothing—and I mean nothing—quite as annoying as sneakers squeaking on a basketball court. It's worse than nails on a chalkboard.

I know how most guys are about sports. Sports and porn, actually. They can watch them no matter what. They don't have to be interested in who wins—or in getting off. It's the male equivalent of a soap opera.

I can't stand those either.

I listened to the godawful squeaking for as long as I could stand it, trying to think of a polite way to ask him to change the channel or mute the sound. Nothing came to me.

"Brian, please, please, pretty please...make it stop."

He looked up me like I'd spoken Greek.

"Mute the damned TV," I explained.

He muted the damned TV and set the remote on the coffee table. Sighing, he ran his hands through his hair. I noticed he did that a lot, and without making a mess out of his hair. If I picked up that habit, I'd end up looking like Einstein.

"This is killing me," Brian said. "The sitting. Waiting. Not being able to do a damn thing." He ran his hands up and down his thighs, rubbing them hard against his faded jeans. "I need to be doing something. Anything. I need to not feel so fucking useless."

My cell rang, saving me from saying something trite and not at all helpful. I dug the phone out of my pocket and looked at the caller ID.

"My brother," I said to Brian. I hit the talk button on my phone and said, "I told you'd I'd call you back. Hang on a minute."

I struggled up out of the recliner and headed outside to talk to Alex. This conversation could get ugly, and I'd rather there were no witnesses.

"Okay," I said as I shut the door. "Now, do you want to rant at me, or do you want me to tell you what's going on?"

Alex was quiet for so long that I thought the call had dropped. Maybe he was trying to decide which option he preferred. I don't really know.

"Tell me what's going on," he said at last.

I appreciated Alex's effort to contain his temper. I knew he had to be worried as well as pissed off. I don't know that I could have been as calm in his place.

"Okay, you know I got a call while I was at the park. Your first hysterical voicemail said that Scott called you when he couldn't get in touch with me, told you'd I'd just wandered off in the middle of the battle game."

"Right."

One syllable answers. That couldn't be good. "It was Brian that called me."

"Dylan's hot-as-hell boyfriend Brian?"

"Yeah. That one." I took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "He called to ask me if I'd heard from Dylan."

"You're killing me, Lizard. Just get to the point."

I wanted to hit something. If I jumped straight into the middle of the story, Alex would freak. And, apparently, if I didn't he'd bitch. Great. Just great.

"Fine. But remember I tried to break this to you gently."

"Break what—" Alex started to ask. I cut him off.

"Dylan's missing. Brian and I haven't heard from her since she left for the airport. God, was that only yesterday morning? Shit."

"Whoa, what do you mean Dylan's missing? And why am I just now hearing about it?"

"I didn't tell you sooner because I knew you'd want to come out here with me, and there's no point. You've got work, and Blas wouldn't like it much if you just up and left. Besides, it isn't like there's anything you can do that I can't."

"Blas would understand," Alex argued.

"No, Blas would put up with it because he loves you, but he wouldn't understand. He's practical, like me. He'd see right off that you can't really do anything, and he wouldn't understand you running off to Orlando just to sit around and wait, not when you can sit around and wait right where you are."

"Point," Alex conceded.

"I can't file a missing person report from here, but I'm working with an investigator," I said, bending the truth until it screamed for mercy. I was so not going to try to explain the magic thing. "And believe me when I tell you that being out here does not make me feel any more useful."

Alex stayed silent for a moment, and I switched the phone to my other ear, waiting.

"Do you think Brian has anything to do with it?"

I laughed, more out of surprise than amusement. "This isn't a Lifetime movie-of-the-week, Alex. The boyfriend isn't the bad guy this time."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Brian loves her, Alex. Really loves her. This is killing him."

"I had to ask, but I trust your judgment. On this, anyway."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said.

"Anytime," Alex said. And then, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Yeah, there is. I know it's asking a lot, but if you can get up to Dallas and file that missing person report, that'd be good."

Alex was quiet for a moment, considering. "You're right about me not really being able to just up and run off. My boss, not the most caring guy in the world. I might not be able to get away for a few days."

"Like I said, we're working on it from this end. I just don't want to leave any bases uncovered. If you can't make the trip, I understand that. And if it has to wait a few days, then it just has to wait a few days." I sighed. "I never thought I'd say this, but I really wish I knew how to get in touch with Carly. Or their parents."

"There's this amazing thing called the internet. Let's you look up phone numbers."

I smiled and shook my head, even though Alex couldn't see it. "That'd be swell if the Connellys had a published number. Or Dylan's sister had a landline."

"Shit. Didn't think about that."

"Just do what you can, Alex. We'll find her." I wasn't even sure I believed that, but I knew he needed to hear it. "I know one thing—when this is all over, when we find Dylan and we're all home safe and sound, I'm going to look into getting that whole GPS cell-phone tracking thing on my phone."

"Good idea. Of course, it won't do much good if you get separated from the phone."

"Maybe we all need subdural GPS chips or something." No, I'm not a geek at all.

Alex laughed. "Technology isn't that advanced yet."

"And only you would know that."

I could hear something, and someone, in the background on Alex's end. I heard Alex's muffled response, and then he said to me, "Blas is home. I'm gonna go. Keep me in the loop, dammit."

"I will, Alex. I promise." I would, as much as I could.

"Later, Lizard."

"Bye, Alley Cat." I hung up before he could yell at me. He hated that nickname even more than I hated "Lizard."

I dialed Dylan's cell again, not expecting or getting any answer, before shoving my phone in my back pocket and letting myself back into the house. Brian paced around the living room, cell phone pressed to his ear. I hesitated, wondering if I should give him some privacy, but he motioned me in. I curled up on one end of the sofa and watched him.

"Yeah," he said, pacing toward the front door. And then, "No, you don't need to do that. I'm okay." He listened again as he turned to walk back toward the kitchen , and then said, "I hope not. I hope...yeah, exactly."

He half-sat, half-leaned on the arm of the couch. "Thanks, Adrian. I will. You don't have to...okay, I'll see you then. You, too. Bye." He hit a button on the phone, then hit a few more and held it to his ear again. From the look that crossed his face, I guessed that he'd tried Dylan's cell again, too. He slid from his perch on the sofa's arm to slouch in its corner.

"Adrian called," he said.

"I gathered."

He nodded. "He wanted to see how things were going with Dylan. I never thought to call and tell him what's going on."

"Oh, wow. I'm sorry."

He laid his arm across the back of the sofa, his hand palm up. I accepted the offer, shifting a bit so I could lay my hand in his.

"He offered to fly out tonight. I talked him out of that, but he's insisting on coming up this weekend, whatever happens."

"I had to talk my brother out of coming out here, too. And out of killing me for keeping this from him."

Brian smiled at me, but it didn't touch his eyes.
Chapter Eight

I remember wishing I could relax enough to get a little nap. The next thing I remember is Brian waking me up so we could head back to the airport. London insisted on my riding up front this time, and I didn't argue.

Ashe climbed in behind the wheel, watching his rearview mirror to make sure the boys were settled in. Once we were on our way, he turned down the radio that had blared to life when he started the engine.

"I made a snap judgment about you back at the airport. And I'm pretty sure I was wrong. I just wanted to apologize for that," he said.

I shrugged, even though he couldn't see it. "It happens. No apology necessary."

"I thought you were trouble," he continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "And you could be, if you wanted. "

"Trouble, huh?"

Ashe waited for a Jeep to pass by, and then turned onto a cross street. "Trouble. Not just a distraction, though that can be bad enough when you're dealing with magic. But a...what's the word I'm looking for. Not impediment. Obstacle! An obstacle."

I pondered that for a moment. "You thought I'd stand in between London and his magic, somehow."

He snorted. "Somehow. Yeah, somehow."

"You thought I was his girlfriend. And that I'd...I don't know. Disapprove?" I thought about his ex. What's her name. Kelley. She'd been an impediment for sure.

"Disapprove, yeah. Think magic makes him evil. Think he was fucking nuts."

"From what Brian told me, London's dealt with all of that. But I'm not his girlfriend. I just met him."

Ashe glanced at me. "You think that means you can't be trouble?"

I looked out the window, remembering all the little touches and things that had passed between London and me. Oh yeah, trouble can come out of nowhere, for sure.

"It's not like that," I said.

"Sure it isn't. And I'm Mother Teresa."

I turned to look over my shoulder. All I could see of London was a cloud of caramel-colored hair, whipped around by the breeze.

"It's not like that," I said again as I straightened in my seat.

"You're as gun shy as he is. What'd they do to you, baby girl?"

"Asked too many fucking questions," I answered.

Ashe laughed, but he took the hint.

When we reached the airport, Ashe dragged himself out of the truck long enough to shake hands with me and Brian and clap London on the shoulder with a reminder to call him if he needed anything. He climbed back into the truck and was pulling away before we even made it inside.

There wasn't much of a wait to pick up our boarding passes or go through the security screening song-and-dance. We made it to our gate—if you could call it that—with a little time to spare. I hit the ladies room while the boys found a vending machine with bottled water. I downed half of mine before we boarded. The terminal building couldn't have been much cooler than the outdoors; mid-April or not, the temperature had to be in the high 80s.

When we'd left Orlando, none of us had known when we'd be heading back from Key West. That being the case, London had booked us one-way flights. He'd booked one-ways again for the flight home, but the last minute arrangements had left us with slim pickin's as far as seats. Business class had filled up, pushing us back into the crowded, cramped economy section. London somehow managed to find two seats together, with a third a few rows ahead of them. London took the single aisle seat. I knew it was so I wouldn't be alone and wouldn't have to sit by the window. Still, as much as I like Brian, I'd have preferred having London beside me. Silly, but true.

We taxied out and were cleared for takeoff. Brian offered me his hand, and I had a sneaking suspicion that London had told him all about my fear of flying.

I took Brian's hand with a nearly-whispered, "Thanks."

Maybe it should have bothered me, knowing London had been telling my secrets, but instead I was kind of grateful.

Stressed and exhausted, we didn't talk much on the flight to Orlando or the drive back to the hotel. Back at the Dolphin, we surrendered to the robber baron and ordered room service. I kicked off my shoes, peeled off my socks, and crawled onto the bed to sit with my back against the headboard. Brian dropped into the desk chair and reached for his guitar, but hesitated as he watched London slide down the wall to sit with his knees drawn up and his head down.

"London?"

"I'm fine," London said, in answer to the question Brian hadn't really asked. He ran his hand over his face. "I should have said something sooner, but the timing sucked. Anyway, Dylan's still okay."

Brian sat back in his chair, and I said a silent little prayer of thanks.

"And I feel like I should tell you guys that I lied to you," he added.

"About what?" Brian got the question out before I could.

"Nothing important. This is going to sound weird, but I lied about business class being sold out."

Sound weird? What an understatement. "Why?" I asked.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "This is awkward," he said, wrapping his arms around his knees. "But I wanted an excuse to not sit beside you. One that I didn't have to explain."

I shouldn't have felt like I'd been kicked in the gut, but I did. Something must have shown on my face because Brian told London he might want to explain his statement.

"We didn't have a lot of time before the flight, and I wanted to wait until we were back here to get into this. It's not easy for me talk about."

"What isn't?" Brian asked

"All this paranormal stuff. Talking to Ashe, having him teach me, it brought back a lot of memories." He sighed. "I had what I wanted to say planned out in my head, and now it's all gone."

"London," I began, but he cut me off with a wry grin.

"I know, I know. It doesn't matter where I start. Just open my mouth and see what comes out."

I smiled at him and gave my head a little shake. "I was going to say you don't owe us any explanation."

"Maybe not, but I need you—both of you—to understand what we're dealing with."

"We're listening," Brian said.

London took another deep breath and launched into his story. "Everyone I know who's involved with magic, or whatever it is, has different abilities. Mine deal with emotion."

"Like with Dylan's dress. You could see her because of the emotions tied to it. Right?"

He gave me a little nod. "That's part of it. But I don't really see her. I sense her emotions. And before you ask, she's a little bit scared, a lot pissed off, and worried—I think about how Brian's dealing with her not showing up at the airport." He turned to look at Brian. "She's pretty crazy about you."

Brian swallowed, hard, and said, "Good to know."

"Anyway, the first time I reached out for her, with you two touching me, I didn't just sense her emotions. I felt them like they were my own."

"That's why it hit you so hard," I guessed.

"Yup. You two, and your feelings for Dylan, acted as a kind of focus, but there are other things that can make the connection stronger, too. For me, and for a lot of other people from what Shelley told me, working with your abilities makes them stronger. Kind of like weight-lifting, right? But there's a gap, I guess you'd call it, in between learning to call your powers and learning to control them. While you're in that gap, you're really vulnerable. When I first started dealing with my abilities, they were 'on' 24-7. I couldn't choose when to focus on someone's emotions and when to shut them out. So every time I touched someone—shook somebody's hand or got bumped into or anything, I knew what they were feeling."

"And you were just a kid," Brian noted.

"Yup. Fourteen. And having to deal with knowing when my parents were pissed at each other or my brother was lusting after some girl who wasn't his girlfriend. That was pretty bad. But when things were at their worst, I didn't even have to touch someone to read them. If I did touch them, I could usually tell why they were feeling what they were feeling—who they were mad at or what had happened to upset them. Shelly told me it meant my abilities were really strong. All I knew is that I was learning a lot of stuff about people that I didn't want to know."

London fell silent for a moment, and I thought about what he had said. It would be hell to know what everyone was feeling all the time, especially for a fourteen-year-old. Being a teenager is hard enough for us vanilla folk.

On the tails of that thought were my distant and unhappy memories of high school.

"High school," I said aloud. "You were surrounded by people all the time."

"Yup. I went to a pretty big school. Something like 5,000 kids. All that emotion, it was overwhelming. And a lot of the time I couldn't tell where my own feelings stopped and other people's started. I felt like I was drowning."

He stood up and went to the windows, looking out into the night. I hadn't bothered looking out the window, but I knew Disney's Epcot stretched out below it. It's beautiful, all lit up at night. I doubted that London even really saw it.

"I still don't know whether it was not being able to deal with my abilities—my own fear and frustration—or if I'd picked up one too many negative emotions from other people. But whatever it was..." He sighed and leaned forward to rest his forehead and one arm against the glass.

I looked at Brian. He was watching his friend—his brother—with a look of dawning horror. He'd reached the same conclusion I had. I wanted to tell London to just stop, that we didn't want to hear any more, but I stayed silent and let him talk.

"It was right after the Christmas break. We'd had a couple weeks away from school, and I thought I was getting a handle on my powers. I had learned a little about shielding—turning off my ability to sense emotions. But as soon as I got to school that first day back, I knew I hadn't learned enough. A couple of days later, I chased a handful of my brother's allergy meds with half a bottle of my dad's Scotch. I woke up in the hospital. My parents knew enough about what I was dealing with that they kept me out of the nuthouse, and they were a hundred percent behind me when I said I was done with magic."

"Jesus, London," Brian breathed.

I didn't have anything to add. Couldn't have, anyway, without giving away the fact that I was crying. I eased off the bed and into the bathroom to grab a handful of tissues. I was still standing there mopping my teary face when London pushed on the half-open door and peeked inside. I reached out to touch him, but made myself stop. He'd put distance between us earlier, on the flight home, to keep me from touching him, to keep from feeling my emotions. I wasn't going to inflict them on him now.

London smiled at me, his eyes tired. He pushed the door again, so it was wide open, and held his hand out. "It's okay," he said. "Come here."

I hesitated for just a second, and then took his hand. He shivered, even though the room wasn't cold. His eyes met mine and there was something in them that I couldn't quite put a name to.

After a minute or so, he changed his grip on my hand and drew me forward to wrap me in a warm hug. A foot of difference in height makes hugging a bit awkward if you don't go about it right. A couple of my friends are pretty tall, though, so I had had a little practice. I slid my arms around London's waist and rested my head against his chest, right over his heart.

We didn't stay like that long; we enjoyed the moment, and then let go. But brief or not, that hug was pretty amazing.

Room service showed up a short time later, and we ate dinner to the somewhat muted sound of fireworks exploding over the nearby theme park. Not long after we'd finished dinner and the last firework had boomed, London spoke up.

"Shelley sent me to Ashe because he's the only person she knows of who has powers similar to mine and has used them to track people," he said. "He hates the mainland and avoids it as much as he can. We're assuming Dylan is probably in Orlando still, and he didn't want to have to come here and try to track her, so he passed that job on to me."

"Can you do it?" Brian asked.

"Honestly? I don't know. I could track you guys from the backyard without a focus, and Ashe said that's a good sign. I could find you," he added, looking at Brian, "from a little farther away, because we have an emotional bond. Ashe's words, not mine. And I could track you from way down the block using Dylan's dress as a focus. From any farther away, I couldn't do a damn thing, though. I want to try getting more distance with one of you, but I'd need something personal, something with emotional attachment. Using secondhand emotion, like with Dylan's dress, just doesn't work as well."

We both stayed silent for a moment. I hoped that Brian would come through. I had something with me that had a strong sentimental attachment, but I wanted to avoid admitting to it if I could.

"My guitar," Brian said after a moment.

"Thought you'd say that," London said. "But I had something else in mind. Are you still carrying around that letter?"

"Yeah." Brian pulled out his wallet and opened it up to withdraw a creased sheet of paper from the bill section. I recognized the handwriting.

"Is that...?"

"A love letter from Dylan?" London finished. "Oh, yeah." He took the letter from Brian, a small smile playing across his lips. He grabbed the spare key card from the desk where he'd left it when he came in from the bar the night before.

"You're not going to wander off alone are you?"

"Not if you come with me. Brian can stay here, where it's relatively safe. I don't need him to be missing; I just need to know if I can find him, if that makes sense."

It did. I pulled my socks and shoes back on and followed London down to the lobby. He stood there for a moment, eyes closed, and then gave a little nod. He turned and walked away, trusting me to follow. We went out the back door of the hotel to the covered walkway that leads to the Dolphin's sister hotel, the Swan. Halfway between the two buildings, London stopped again, reaching for Brian with his senses. Again he nodded. He repeated his routine from inside the Swan. So far, so good.

London wandered out the front doors of the Swan and looked around. There isn't much there except a big circular drive and a fountain. We couldn't get much farther away, going that direction.

"This way," I said, leading him back through the hotel to the walkway. Outside, I took a right instead of following the path to the Dolphin.

London took the lead once we were on the new path, trying to compare the distance to what he'd already tried. I shook my head and moved ahead of him—no small feat considering my stride is half the length of his.

"Let's go down to the Boardwalk. If it's too far for you to sense Brian, you can work your way backward, right?"

London stopped in his tracks. "I feel dumb," he said.

I laughed. "We can't all be brilliant," I said.

Shaking his head, London stepped forward and caught my hand. Anyone watching us walk down to the Boardwalk would think we were young lovers enjoying a night in the Happiest Place on Earth. Even under the circumstances, it was kind of nice.

At the far end of the Boardwalk, London dropped my hand and closed his eyes again. He frowned in concentration for a moment, and then shook his head.

"It's too fuzzy," he said. "I can sense him, but I can't tell where it's coming from."

My heart sank. We weren't all that far away. We'd have to be practically on top of Dylan to find her. In a city this size, it'll be like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack. If she was even in Orlando.

London stared across the lagoon at Epcot for a minute and then took my hand again. Instead of leading me back toward the hotel, he closed his eyes. His lips curved up into a smile, and when he opened his eyes they shone with triumph.

"What just happened?" I asked.

"You boosted the signal, that's what happened."

Hope flared inside me. "How much of a signal boost?"

"Enough," he said. He turned and looked behind him. "Where does that path go?"

"Um. Not sure. Epcot maybe? But if we go that way," I said, pointing off to one side, "there's a long, long sidewalk out to the road and the employee parking lot and stuff."

London headed off in the direction I pointed, my hand still in his. We were nearly to the street before he shook his head again. I had a mere second to feel that sinking pang again before he said, "It's not even fading. We need the car."

We went back to the room, got the keys from Brian, and dragged ourselves back to the parking lot. Two miles, give or take, seemed to be the cutoff point.

"Not bad," London said, as he circled around and pointed us back toward the hotel.

"It's still a pretty small search radius," I said.

"But think about it, Em. You care a hell of a lot more about Dylan than you do Brian. And he cares about her, too. With both of you, there's no telling how much bigger that search radius is gonna be."

I did think about it. Then I added, "But your bond with Brian is stronger than with Dylan. I mean, you don't even know Dylan."

"When Ashe and I were experimenting, my own feelings only gave me a few extra yards. Your feelings for Brian, which we both know aren't as strong, gave me nearly two miles. I think it's safe to assume my own emotions don't play as big a part in this."

Hope reared its head again. "You really think you can do this?"

London parked the car, shut down the engine, took out the keys. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, staring out at the night. "I'm sure I can. It won't be easy or quick, but I'll find her. We're going to get her back, and then she and Brian are going to have that happily ever after you don't believe in."

"You pull this off, and I'll believe. Having Dylan back safe is happily ever after enough for me."

Chapter Nine

When London and I got back to the hotel room, Brian greeted us with a glance and half a nod, concentrating instead on his guitar. I didn't recognize the song this time. All I knew for sure is that it wasn't Pink Floyd, but it rivaled "Wish You Were Here" for most depressing song I've ever heard. I figured Brian had to be using the music as an outlet for his emotions, the way I would sometimes vent my own through blog posts or random bits of prose. Catharsis is all well and good, but I didn't want to hear it.

I scooped up some clothes and fled to the bathroom. Showering away the grime and stress of a long day created the perfect excuse for avoiding the sorrowful music without any long explanations.

Worry pounded at me like the hot spray from the showerhead. Where was Dylan? How and why had she disappeared from the airport? Would we find her? Would we find her before anything bad happened to her? Would London be overwhelmed again by other people's emotions and dealing with magic? Would we end up needing to put him on suicide watch? What the hell would I do if anything happened to Dylan? What would Brian do?

I shoved all the worry and negativity aside, squishing it down into a mental footlocker and slamming the imaginary lid shut. I'd think about it later. Right now, I was too damned tired.

I concentrated on getting clean: lather, rinse, repeat. The simple task couldn't keep all thought at bay, but it did help me steer my brain onto safer avenues. Like wondering how London knew I didn't believe in happily ever after.

The simple explanation was that the boys were talking about me behind my back. Maybe Brian had noticed the way I couldn't seem to help looking at London when I thought no one could see and had warned London away. Or maybe it had just been a casual statement without any deeper motivation. Or maybe Brian hadn't told London anything at all. Maybe London's ability to read people's emotions, his empathy, could tell him more than he wanted to admit.

Better to believe Brian was telling tales out of school.

I went back to concentrating on simple tasks. I finished washing my hair, wished for half a second that I had thought to pack a razor, shut off the water, and climbed out of the shower. Dried off. Considering using the hair dryer, but decided I didn't care if my hair went all Medusa from sleeping with it wet and settled for giving it a quick towel dry. I reached for my clothes—Happy Bunny bikini briefs, of all things, and my makeshift pajamas—and pulled them on.

By the time I opened the bathroom door and stepped out, I had managed to shut my concerns about London's powers into the footlocker with my other worries.

Brian had traded his guitar for London's laptop. London lay sprawled on the bed like a teenaged girl: belly down, feet in the air, propped up on his forearms. A manila folder lay open on the bed in front of him, but he ignored it in favor of the laptop screen, craning his neck to peer around Brian's broad shoulders.

I took a seat on the end of the bed, still toweling my damp hair, and joined the boys in looking at the computer screen. We were staring at a map of Orlando. The metro area looked huge to me.

"Where do we start?" London asked.

"Near the airport, right?" Brian asked.

"Her last known whereabouts," London said. "It makes sense."

"No," I said, surprising myself as much as the boys. Brian turned to look at me, and I shook my head slightly. "It makes sense, in a way, but I don't think it's the best place to start looking."

"Why not?"

"Brian," I said, turning my head slightly to make full eye contact, "What do you think happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"What happened after Dylan got off that plane? How'd she disappear? I mean, we obviously don't know the answer, but what does your gut instinct tell you?"

The muscles in Brian's jaw clenched, relaxed. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again and met my gaze. "I think she was taken."

"Me, too. It's the only thing that makes sense."

Brian relaxed a little, like maybe he'd been afraid we'd think he was crazy for believing Dylan had been kidnapped. I shifted, intending to reach out for him, but he turned back toward the computer.

"You really think someone just dragged her out of the airport?" London asked.

"Lured, maybe," I answered. "Coerced." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw London nod. "If someone took her," I continued, "if she's being held for ransom or something, I think that changes things. Wouldn't a kidnapper hold her somewhere away from the airport?"

"But where?" London asked.

"I don't know," I admitted.

Brian sighed and pushed back from the desk. "Maybe we should just throw a dart at a map."

"Probably as good as anything," London agreed.

Without another word, Brian got up, grabbed clean clothes, and shut himself in the bathroom. I took the chair he had vacated.

"Any ideas?" I asked London.

"Nope. I meant it when I said the dart idea was as good as anything."

I stared at the map for a minute. There was something we were missing. Something we hadn't considered. But no flash of genius or insight struck.

The sound of rustling paper drew my attention from the map, and I turned to look behind me. London rifled through the folder full of papers, photocopies of handwritten pages. Before I could decide whether to be polite or give in to my curiosity, London glanced up and saw me looking at the papers.

"Ashe's notes," he said. "Some good stuff in here."

He handed me a page, and I realized as I reached for it that he could sense my curiosity and had chosen to indulge me. Kinda creepy. It would take a lot of getting used to. A look of dismay flitted across London's face before he looked down at the papers, using his hair as a shield. He'd felt my discomfort, just like he'd felt my curiosity. Shit.

Not knowing what else to do, I started reading the page of notes in my hand. I hadn't even finished the first sentence before I was distracted by the sound of the bathroom door opening. I glanced up, and then down again. Brian in boxer shorts and a white undershirt—the kind affectionately known as a wife beater—was just not what I needed right now.

London laughed, and I looked up again.

"What?" Brian asked, dragging back the duvet on his side of the bed.

"Nothing," London said, but his eyes were sparkling. He grinned at me, and I suddenly got the joke.

"Not a word," I hissed, blushing.

London reached out to touch my hand, hesitated, and then laid his hand on top of mine on the arm of the chair. "We'll talk about it later," he said, "but you really shouldn't feel bad about it."

I didn't know what to say. Especially since feeling bad about finding Brian attractive was a new thing and one I didn't understand myself.

London drew his hand away, pushed himself up, and crawled off the bed, headed for the shower. Shaking my head, I gathered up the pages of Ashe's notes, tucking them back into the file folder. Boys. I put the laptop to sleep, closed the lid, and dropped the folder on top.

I took a few seconds to untuck the sheet and duvet from the foot of the bed and then turned the covers back on my side. As I climbed onto the bed, I noticed that Brian had the letter from Dylan out, his fingers tracing over the words as if he could reach through the paper and ink to stroke her cheek. I crawled across the bed, settling in beside Brian and resting my head on his shoulder. He slid his arm around me and laid the letter down.

"I've had this for months now, and I still don't know what it says here," he said, tapping a spot on the page.

I picked up the letter. No, the note; it was too short to be a letter.

"You don't mind?"

Brian shook his head, and I began to read. As I read, I began to grin. The note was typical Dylan, straight to the point, no pretense.

"I'm not really sure," I said, "but I think the part you can't read right here says that Dylan's boss is a douchebag."

Brian laughed as he took the letter from me. "Sounds about right."

"Yeah. Especially since it's true. I really kind of hate that man."

"That makes two of us."

He reclaimed his arm so he could tuck the note back into his wallet, and I moved back to my side of the bed, curling up under the duvet with my back to him. The mattress shifted and bumped as he settled in, and then we both lay in the quiet room, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the seashell roar of water running through pipes.

Exhaustion made itself felt in every inch of my body, but unlike the night before, sleep didn't sneak up to claim me. Instead, I lay there, a prisoner to my own tangled thoughts and feelings.

Sometime later, I heard the bathroom door open. I listened as London moved around the room, turning over to look at him only when I heard him sigh. He stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at it.

"You okay?" I asked, keeping my voice low in case Brian had managed to sleep.

"Yup. Just thinking."

I felt the bed shift as Brian turned over. "You going to be able to handle the close quarters?" he asked.

London took a moment to answer. "I think so," he said at last. "As long as no one has nightmares, I think we'll all be okay."

Of course. Touching made London's empathy stronger, and with him trapped in between us in the bed, touching would be damned near inevitable. I sighed and scooted to the middle.

London's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Um. Claustrophobia?"

"Just get in the damned bed before I change my mind." I thumped my pillow a few times and settled in again.

The lights went off, one by one, and then the mattress dipped as London climbed into bed. This whole thing had been much less awkward the night before, when I'd been on the periphery. I curled up more tightly, trying to take up less space, but I ending up kneeing Brian in the butt instead.

Brian rolled over on his back and raised his arm over his head. "Come here," he said. "Let's give London some room."

I didn't even hesitate. With the lights out, I didn't think of Brian as some tan, toned, sex-god. He was just Brian, the nice bloke I'd met on a boat. I curled up against his side, and he draped his arm around me.

"Brian," London said from somewhere behind me, "Don't take this the wrong way, but fuck you."

I felt Brian's chest heave with a little, soundless laugh. "You want me to cuddle you, too? You can have the other side."

"No, really, Brian. Fuck. You."

I turned and groped in the dark, searching for London's hand. I found his face first, and he chuckled. I traced a line down to his shoulder and along his arm to take hold of his hand. Bringing it with me, I turned back over and curled up against Brian, pulling London into our circle. I didn't feel claustrophobic at all, and if London had a problem with the contact, he didn't say a word about it.

Curled up between two guys I barely knew, I felt safer than I had in a long, long time. We'd managed to forge a bond of trust in the past day that surpassed most of the others in my life. It was crazy, but it didn't feel crazy.

Lulled by the beat of Brian's heart and the warmth—physical and emotional—surrounding me, I began to slip toward sleep. My thoughts drifted, as they do, flitting from topic to topic without any conscious guidance or acknowledgement.

Then a thought crossed my mind that made me sit up in bed, startling cries of protest out of both of the boys. Ignoring them, I scrambled out from under the duvet and scooted down the bed to slide off the end.

"Elizabeth?" Brian sounded concerned.

"I think I know," I said, flopping down in the chair and inching up to the desk.

"Think you know what?" London asked.

"Where to start." I grabbed my laptop, sat it on top of London's, snapped up the lid, and hit the power button. I squinted against the sudden light and tapped in my password.

"What the hell are you on about?" Brian asked.

"Logic," I replied. "It just came to me. Just now."

"I hate when that happens—you get a brilliant idea just when you're falling asleep."

I nodded in agreement with London as I fired up my web browser. "I'm glad it happened this time, though. Well, no. I wish I had thought of it earlier. But I'm just glad I thought of it."

"Are you going to actually explain what it is you thought of?" London asked, leaning on the back of my chair.

"Okay, so. I worked at a summer camp a few years ago—one of the dumbest things I've ever done, but at least I didn't try to be a camp counselor. Anyway, we all had training at the start of the summer on what to do in emergency situations—like missing campers." I had pulled up a map of Orlando, and now I zoomed in. "One of the basic ways to search for a person is what they call an expanding circle."

"Start in the middle and work your way out," London said, catching on.

"Usually, you start your search wherever the person was last seen. But in this case, yeah, the middle, I think, since we're assuming they moved her away from the airport."

"So where does that put us?" London asked.

I zoomed out and in again, trying to figure out a good midpoint. "Um. The mall I think."

"Cool," London said. He reached around me to push the lid down on the laptop. "One less thing to worry about."

I took that as my cue, and we both went back to bed. I felt more hopeful now that we had a plan. Armed with that hope, sleep was a lot easier to find.

Chapter Ten

The incessant chirping of someone's cell phone alarm dragged me out of sleep. Brian fumbled on the bedside table until he came up with the phone and shut off the alarm. The room was still dark, the sun not yet up. I was beginning to suspect Brian of being a morning person. As I drifted back to sleep, I wondered how Dylan would deal with that. Both of us tended to stay up late and sleep in when work and school weren't getting in the way.

The next time I woke, I was alone in the bed. The sun was up now, the first thin light of dawn creeping in around the thick curtains. Brian and London were huddled around the laptop, talking in low voices. I listened to them long enough to know they were mapping out a route for our search circle, and then I dragged myself out of bed to get dressed. The sooner we started looking, the sooner we'd find Dylan and this whole nightmare would come to an end.

The boys gathered up phones, key cards, and wallets while I pulled on my shoes, and we headed for the car. No one had much to say on the walk to the parking lot. London looked like he enjoyed mornings about as much as I do.

At the car, London opened the rear driver's-side door and motioned me inside. Definitely not a morning person. I climbed in and turned to reach for the belt, but London stopped me with a word: "Scoot." I scooted, and he squeezed in beside me.

"Contact," he said. "Easiest way to reach both of you." He fished his iPod and a long cord out of his pocket. Talk about being prepared. And I thought _I_ had the packing thing down to a fine art. He plugged one end of the cord into the music player and leaned between the front seats to plug the other end into the auxiliary port on the car stereo.

"You're in charge of this," London said, firing up the iPod and handing it to me. He fastened his seat belt just as Brian started backing the car out of the parking space and then slumped against the window, eyes closed.

I fiddled with the iPod as we followed the loop around the resort area and then turned onto Buena Vista Drive to head away from Disney. London had an eclectic mix of music, even according to my standards, and I didn't recognize half the bands. I found a lot of my favorites, too, though—even some of my more obscure favorites—and after a minute or two of scrolling, I chose Elvis Monroe's "Comin' Around," a song that both Dylan and I loved.

Looking up from the iPod, I noticed that Brian had a GPS map pulled up on his phone that he glanced at now and again as he drove.

"You don't really need the GPS," I told him. "We're going straight up I-4."

"Coffee first," London explained.

"Awesome. Wait. Did you program that thing for the nearest Crackbucks? Because that's probably a bad idea."

"Why's that?" Brian asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

"I remember trying that once, when I lived here. Bob...uh...my GPS took me to the Outlet Mall food court. We don't wanna do that."

London cracked an eyelid to look at me. "You named your GPS?"

"Yeah. Bob. Don't ask."

London smiled and shook his head, closing his eyes again. Glancing into the rearview mirror, I could see Brian smirking. Fine. Whatever. Let them be amused.

"Anyway," I said, "There's a Starbucks by the mall."

Brian found his way to I-4, and we made good time heading north. We grabbed a quick breakfast at Mickey D's, taking a few minutes to sit and eat. Then we piled back into the car, grabbed coffee in the Starbucks drive-through, and began our search.

Hollywood portrays search and rescue operations as dramatic, pulse-pounding events. This one, at least, was the polar opposite: boring and tedious, except for the minor amusement afforded by Brian swearing at and flipping off the crappy Orlando drivers. London had the worst of it, of course; not only did he have to concentrate on trying to find Dylan, he also had to ride leaning forward so that he could rest his fingertips against Brian's neck. He couldn't even brace himself with his other hand, since it was firmly gripping mine.

We took a few breaks to let London stretch out and to give Brian some relief from traffic. We hadn't taken the congestion of the tourist areas into account, and our search circle wasn't expanding as fast as we had hoped it would. By lunchtime, we all had a little black storm cloud hanging over our heads. We kept at it, though, until nearly dark.

And through it all, London never felt so much as a spark.

We headed back to the hotel with our hearts a little heavier than they had been. Before the door had even closed behind him, London made a beeline for the closet. He pressed Dylan's dress against his cheek, and then he laughed.

"She's okay," he told us. "I mean, Brian and I checked on her this morning, but still. Anyway, she's pissed, but she's also feeling smug about something. That's gotta be a good thing, right?"

"Definitely," I said. "Maybe she kicked her kidnapper in the dangly bits." I paused, staring at him. "You didn't need us this time. To connect to Dylan."

London looked a little surprised, like he hadn't realized it himself until I pointed it out. He let go of the dress, smoothing it. "That's gotta be a good thing, too, right?" He didn't sound so sure this time.

Brian gave London's shoulder a brief squeeze. "Anything that helps us find Dylan's a good thing. We'll sort the rest out later."

London gave him a tired smile and a nod. He ran through some stretches while we all decided what to order from room service, and then he lay down flat on his back on the floor. Brian picked up the phone to call in the order, and I moved away to stand over London, looking down at him. There were dark circles under his eyes and tension seemed to have taken up permanent residence in the muscles of his forehead and neck.

I nudged him with my foot, and waited for him to open his eyes before I spoke. "A hot shower will help more than a hard floor."

"Probably."

"Come on," I said, offering him a hand up.

He smiled and reached for my hand. His eyes fluttered a little when we touched, and for some reason it made my pulse speed up just a touch. Stupid hormones.

Either London didn't notice—he was exhausted after all—or he chose not to comment. He just hauled himself to his feet, and somehow managing to avoid pulling me off mine in the process. As the bathroom door shut behind him, I grabbed my purse.

"Going down to the gift shop," I told Brian. "I'll be right back."

Brian insisted on going with me, but we didn't see any sign of trouble. I gathered up a few necessities, including the razor I had wanted the night before, and paid up, and we were back in the room before London even knew we had gone. He emerged from the shower a few minutes later, his t-shirt and pajama pants sticking to him from the dampness, and curled up on the bed where Brian sat flicking through TV channels.

Brian settled on some action adventure movie on HBO, the volume turned low. I don't like to come into a movie halfway through, but in this case it didn't matter. We were only watching it to kill time while we waited for dinner and not because we gave a damn about the plot.

After dinner, Brian headed for the shower, leaving London and I alone. London lay stretched out on the bed, reading Ashe's notes. I sat at the desk, going through Dylan's email and social networking accounts again and turning up nothing.

"Hey," London said from behind me. "Remember last night when I said we'd talk later?"

I remembered. "Nothing to talk about."

London chuckled. "Think about who you're lying to."

I did think about it. This empathy thing could be damned annoying. "No, really. There's nothing to talk about."

The sheets rustled, and when London spoke again his voice came from somewhere nearer. "Why does it bother you?"

I looked back over my shoulder to find him sitting on the foot of the bed.

"Is it because of Dylan?"

"No." I shook my head. "I don't want to talk about this with you."

London laid his hand on my shoulder. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

I wanted to deny being embarrassed, but I couldn't. Stupid superpowers. I sighed. "It's okay." I took a breath. "See, the thing is, I don't even know why the Brian thing bothers me. I've always thought he's gorgeous, since the first time I laid eyes on him. Had no idea who he was at the time. I just knew he didn't look like he belonged on a cruise ship full of frat boys and old people. But it's always been just an appreciation, you know? Like admiring a painting or something. It's not like I want what Dylan's got with him."

"Yeah, I know. I mean, I could tell."

"So I don't know why it suddenly seems wrong." But even as I said it, I knew why it felt wrong. Admiring Brian made me feel disloyal to London—an idea so ludicrous it should make me want to laugh. "Maybe it's just the situation," I said. "It doesn't seem right to be ogling Brian—or anyone else—right now."

I wasn't sure if London could tell that I was lying, but if he knew, he let it go. I turned back to the computer and pulled up Dylan's bank account. I scrolled through the charges...and let out a strangled yip.

"What? What is it?" London asked. He leaned against the back of the chair, and I pointed at the screen. "Oh, wow."

I heard the bathroom door open, but I couldn't pull my eyes away from the screen. I couldn't find my voice, either, so it was London who shared the news with Brian.

"Someone's using Dylan's debit card," he said.

"What? Where?" Brian asked. A second later, he, too, hovered over me and the laptop.

"Here. In Orlando," London told him. "Fast food, supermarket, gas station."

"The charges are all from yesterday," I added, regaining my ability to speak. "While we were in Key West, someone was using Dylan's money for a shopping spree."

"Is that a store number?" Brian asked, pointing to string of digits listed beside the name of one of the fast food places.

"I dunno." I did a web search using the name and number, but came up blank. Similar searches on the other entries gave us nothing, either.

The easy path obliterated, we went with plan B. I opened my computer notepad and jotted down the names of the stores where the card had been used. London grabbed his laptop, and we made lists of locations for each of the stores. Comparing the lists, we found that the three stores were grouped together in only a couple of places in Orlando.

Ten minutes later the boys were dressed and we were out the door again.

Two hours later, Brian pulled the car into a deserted parking lot, shut off the engine, and got out. He paced, swearing and dragging his hands through his hair.

"Stay here," London said as he hopped out of the car.

He laid his hands on Brian's shoulders, but Brian jerked back and pushed him away. London said something I couldn't hear, and Brian shoved him. London shoved back, and Brian threw a punch. London brought a hand up to block the punch, and the boys grappled for a minute. I was out of my seatbelt and had the car door open before I realized that the fight was over. I watched Brian sink to his knees, his head in his hands. London knelt beside him, blocking my view, and I realized why he'd told me to stay behind. Brian wouldn't want me seeing this. He wouldn't want anyone seeing him like this. I closed the door as quietly as I could and stared hard out the opposite window.

I had no way of knowing how much time passed before they came back to the car. It seemed like years. No one said a word about Brian's breakdown, but when we got back to the hotel, London strong-armed him into taking some kind of prescription sleeping pill. It worked fast, and he was out cold by the time I got out of the shower.

"Got a couple more of those?" I asked London.

He turned away from the window. "A couple?"

I pointed at myself and said, "One," and then at London and said "two."

He shook his head. "Be my guest, but I won't need it. I don't think I've ever been this tired."

"Then why aren't you asleep?"

London shrugged. "Got caught up in thinking about what to do next. And I kind of wanted to wait for you."

I didn't know what to say. London had that effect on me more than I was comfortable with. I just nodded and starting shutting off lights. London met me at the desk, offering me the bottle of sleeping tablets. I considered for a moment, and then shook my head.

"Antihistamines make me loopy enough. That stuff might put me in a coma. I'm good."

London smiled. He set the bottle on the desk and shut off the lamp, plunging the room into near-darkness, the only light coming in through the window. I crawled under the duvet as he pulled the curtain almost closed and then curled up with my back to him. A moment later, he climbed into bed and curled up around me.

"This okay?" he asked.

I didn't say anything, but I laid my arm on top of his. I figured that was answer enough. I guess it was, because he snuggled in a little closer.

I lay awake long after London fell asleep, the last holdout. I should have taken the damned sleeping pill. It was too late now, though. I didn't want to get out of bed and risk waking London. After all, he was the key to this whole thing. He was the one who needed to be well-rested. I could afford to lose a little more sleep. London's well-being was the reason I refused to get out of bed and grab one of those damned tablets. It wasn't because I couldn't bear the thought of sliding out of his embrace. Not at all. Honest.

Yeah, right.

Chapter Eleven

Hours later, I woke to the soft music of a gently strummed guitar. I couldn't place the song right away—I hadn't slept much, and I was groggy as hell—but I noticed right off that it wasn't anything mournful. I rubbed my eyes and sat up, blinking against the sunlight peering in around the curtains, not at all surprised to find Brian still unconscious beside me.

London stopped playing and looked up at me. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

I shook my head, struggling to disentangle myself from the bedcovers. "What time is it?" I asked as I stumbled out of bed and headed toward the bathroom.

"Nearly noon."

I swore under my breath and was about to ask why he hadn't woken Brian and me, but I remembered all that had happened the night before—false hope, meltdown, sleeping pills. Yeah, I'd have let us sleep, too. Still, we needed to find Dylan, and we couldn't do that while cavorting with the Sandman.

I went through my morning routine and got dressed, and by the time I was done I felt a little more human. Stepping out of the bathroom to find breakfast and coffee waiting helped a little more. London was sitting on the edge of the bed by Brian, cup of coffee in hand, trying to lure his friend awake. It was working pretty well, too.

While demolishing a bagel smothered in honey-walnut cream cheese—whoever came up with that combination deserves to be nominated for sainthood or something—I went back over the information London and I had compiled. The results came out the same—the combination of stores where Dylan's card had been used were right where we thought they were, and we'd searched the areas with no luck.

"Don't kill me for asking this," London said, "but if Dylan was kidnapped—"

"Why would someone use her card?" I finished, cutting him off. He nodded, and I shrugged in response. "Maybe she lost the saddlebag she calls a purse and some kid's having a field day with her bank account."

"Or maybe the kidnapper is just really stupid," London suggested.

"How dumb would you have to be to leave a trail pointing right at you? I can't imagine that being the case."

"I don't know," Brian said, licking cream cheese off his finger, "There are some really stupid people in the world. Like that girl. What's her name? The one who got into some of Dylan's online accounts. Bought a bunch of stuff and had it sent to her address?"

"Oh, God. Vanessa," I said. "Sad thing is, she's not dumb. She just doesn't bother to think. And, oh yeah, she's a freaking psychopath."

London looked thoughtful. "Who's this Vanessa?"

"An ex-friend of Dylan's. Dylan swears she was a decent person once upon a time, but I've never seen it. And I met the loony bitch over a decade ago."

Brian and London did that whole annoying communicating-with-nothing-but-eye-contact thing, and I shook my head.

"No way. Vanessa is psycho enough to kidnap Dylan, sure, but she couldn't have planned it, pulled it off, and disappeared. Her mind just doesn't work that way. Or at all, sometimes."

"What if she had help?" London asked between sips of coffee.

I considered it. "I'd say it's possible that she could have done it if she was working with someone else but still not likely."

"Is there any way to find out where she is?" Brian asked.

"I don't know. She's not in our circle anymore. She still tries to play friends with Dylan sometimes, but that's about it." I finished off my bagel and chased it with a few sips of coffee. Then a light bulb went on in my head. "Hand me my cell?"

Brian passed me my phone, and I tapped out a text message to Vanessa's ex-boyfriend, asking if he'd heard from her lately. He answered right away, just like I figured he would. His phone might as well be super-glued to his hand. Yes, he'd talked to her the night before.

I thought for a moment, trying to come up with a justification for wanting to know her whereabouts. Dave knew I couldn't stand Vanessa and that I thought he was an idiot for still talking to her. Then, epiphany: I told him that Dylan had gotten a weird email from her and was worried about her state of mind, concerned for her safety. The phone rang in my hand, startling all of us.

"Hey, Dave," I answered. "Aren't you at work?"

"On my lunch break," he told me. "What's up?"

I fed him a line of utter bullshit, making it up as I went along. I kept it as close to the truth as possible, basing the imaginary email from Vanessa on some of the ones she'd sent to Dylan in the past. Dave believed every word.

"She's fine," he said. "She called to brag about her new boyfriend and rub it in how happy she's been since I dumped her."

"What a pal."

"I'm glad she's doing so well," Dave said. He even meant it, poor guy.

"I know this is a weird question, but do you know where she is? I mean, I heard she moved back to El Paso."

"Yeah, she did. Moved back in with her parents and went back to school. But she's apparently ditching classes this week to hang out with the new boyfriend. Brian, I think? She was bragging about how he's taking her to Disney World—and bitching about how I never cared enough to take her."

I shivered, but it wasn't from cold. I mumbled something about how it sounded like she really was okay and I guessed the email was nothing to be worried about, was probably just another of Vanessa's ploys to try to get Dylan interested in being friends again. He said he had to go so he could actually eat during his lunch break, and we hung up.

With shaking hands, I reached out to lay the cell on the desk. I missed. My head spun a little and everything started to look grey around the edges. I closed my eyes, trying to make the world steady itself again. I could hear movement, and then warm, strong hands took mine.

"Em?" London's voice sounded far away, though he was kneeling right in front of me.

"I think you guys were right," I said. "And I think Vanessa's lost what was left of her mind." I pulled my hands free from London's. Touching me had to be hell on him right now, feeling what I was feeling. "Brian, how much did Dylan tell you about Vanessa?"

Brian's brow furrowed in concentration as he dredged up memories. "She told me Vanessa screwed her boyfriend. Previous boyfriend. And she told me about the crazy emails."

"She tell you that Vanessa thought her boyfriend, Dave, was cheating on her with Dylan?"

"Yeah."

"Wasn't true."

"Of course not. She was projecting. Somewhere in her subconscious, she felt shitty about screwing the boyfriend and so she imagined that Dylan paid back the favor."

I leaned back in the chair. "He wasn't really Dylan's boyfriend, but yeah. Same idea." I watched London push himself upright and move to sit on the bed. "Vanessa has always been jealous of Dylan, always wanted what Dylan has, wanted to be better than Dylan, wanted Dylan to depend on her."

"Sounds like an awesome person," London said.

I gave him a wry smile. "Oh, yeah. A real peach. The thing is, I think, from what Dave said, it's gone beyond that. I think she's delusional." I took a deep breath and then repeated what Dave had said about Vanessa skipping school to spend a few days at Disney World with her boyfriend—a boyfriend who Dave thought might be named Brian.

"It's a common name," London said. I gave him a look. "Yeah, okay, it sounds like she's snapped."

"Yeah, anyway," I turned back toward the desk and woke up the sleeping laptop. "I'm going to see if there have been any more charges on the card, and then we're going to go drive around in circles until we find Dylan."

"I know it seems hopeless, Brian," I heard London say. "But unless they move her every single day, we'll find her soon."

With my back to the boys, I could only imagine what had prompted London's sudden need to reassure his friend. Maybe he'd sensed something, or maybe it had been written all over Brian's face.

"It'd be a damned sight sooner if anyone in this city knew how to drive," I added, aiming for levity and not quite making it. Vanessa—if that's who had Dylan's card—hadn't spent any more money. Maybe someone had pointed out how dumb it had been. Maybe they'd moved Dylan because of it. That would explain why last night's search had been fruitless. I shared this insight with the guys, and we discussed where to start the day's search.

We chose to look again in the parts of town where we believed the card to have been used but expanded our search area this time. Again we drove for hours, rarely speaking, with breaks for lunch and to stretch our legs. I made a point of staying close to Brian during those breaks, offering tangible moral support. I don't know if it helped, but I had to try.

Traffic seemed even worse than it had been the day before, going from inching along to deadlock. I realized that it was Friday rush hour traffic. We'd been in Orlando for three damned days. I wondered if Dylan was near giving up hope of someone finding her.

We kept up the search until well after dark. Around ten o'clock, London slumped, letting his head fall back against the seat.

"I can't," he said, pulling his hand out of mine. "I'm sorry. I just can't anymore right now."

I reached out to pat his leg but thought better of it. He flexed his fingers for a moment, and then took my hand again, giving me a tired smile. I tried to think positive thoughts, for his sake.

We grabbed fast food for dinner, and London amazed me by programming the GPS on Brian's phone with one hand while scarfing down a burger with the other. I can't do much on a phone without both hands, a user's guide, and a whole lot of luck.

"We can go in the back way," London said. "It's closer."

"And we can avoid some of the idiot drivers," Brian added. "I'm in."

London tapped a few keys and handed the phone back to Brian, using his now free hand to take mine. I hadn't tried to manage a sandwich and drink while holding hands since high school. Turns out, it's like falling off a bike: you never forget how to do it.

Brian headed toward the outskirts of Orlando and London's back way to the hotel. We had gone less than five miles, crawling along in bumper-to-bumper traffic, when London sat bolt upright in the seat.

"Stop the car," he said. Brian started looking around, angling toward a nearby parking lot, but that wasn't good enough for London. "Stop the fucking car."

"In the middle of the street?" Brian snapped.

London pounded on the back of Brian's seat with his fists. I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw my own alarm mirrored in Brian's face. Brian cut across traffic, hopped a curb, and parked the car in a deserted lot. Before the car had even stopped, London had his seatbelt off and his door open. Brian and I piled out after him, and he reached for both of us.

"Don't watch me," London said. "Keep an eye out for company." He closed his eyes and leaned back against the car, holding on to Brian and me. Brian and I turned away, watching around us and hoping we weren't drawing any unwanted attention.

"Dammit, Dylan, where'd you go?" London muttered. Then, a minute or two later, "Good girl." He drew his hands out of ours. "She's that way," he said, pointing farther down the street we'd been on.

We scrambled back into the car, and Brian eased out into traffic. He passed our turnoff toward the hotel and drove another mile or so before London told him to turn. Brian wove through traffic to take the next left and then followed London's intermittent directions, meandering through an area filled with pretentious houses and even more pretentious condominiums.

"Slow down," London said, and we crept past house after house until he said, "Here! Here! Stop!"

Brian kept driving. He turned around and drove back to a nearby condo complex that, lucky for us, didn't have a gate or guard to restrict access. He parked in the lot, took off his belt, and turned to look at us.

"You're sure?" he asked. London nodded. "What do we do now? We can't just walk up, knock, and ask whoever answers to give Dylan back."

"Maybe we should wait, watch for the lights to go out," I suggested.

London shook his head and reached for the door handle. "We need to move now. Dylan's scared—really scared." Brian was out of the car before London finished talking. I was right behind him.

"Pop the trunk," I said. Brian didn't hesitate or ask why. I rooted around until I found what I was looking for. I'd have given a lot for a good, heavy, four-way tire iron right then instead of the wimpy compact one that came with the car, but beggars and horses and all that. It was the only weapon available, and I felt better with it in my hands.

We started down the street, London leading the charge, Brian bringing up the rear, and me in the middle, tire iron held down against my leg so it wouldn't be noticeable to any nosy neighbors. None of us had the first, slightest clue how to go about rescuing anyone. Everything we knew about it we'd gotten from movies or books or video games. I prayed it would be enough.

London slowed as we neared the house where he'd felt Dylan's presence. He waited for Brian and me to catch up and pulled us into another huddle. "I want to try something Ashe showed me," he said, closing his eyes.

Again, Brian and I kept watch while London worked his mojo. For a moment, we just stood. Then a smile crossed London's face. The next second, I heard Dylan yelling at the top of her lungs; she sounded angry and triumphant. The three of us sprinted for the house. I hoped no one inside had a gun.

London stopped without warning, and I plowed into him. He pulled me aside and took the tire iron from my hand. The sound of something shattering joined the shouts coming from the house. London took advantage of the noise to cover the explosion of glass as he bashed in a front window with the tire iron. He looked at the jagged shards left behind and hesitated.

"Give me your shirt," I said. The words didn't seem to sink in right away, at least as far as London was concerned, but Brian dragged off his t-shirt. He must have seen the same movies I had, because he knew what I was going to do—he wrapped the shirt around his hand for protection and pushed the shards aside.

London handed me the tire iron and clambered through the window frame to let me and Brian in the front door. We turned together and headed toward the stairs; the sounds of struggle were coming from above us. London's mile-long legs had him up the stairs a few steps ahead of Brian who was more than a few steps ahead of me. I saw London gain the landing and freeze. Brian came to a stop right behind him, and I couldn't see past the two of them. But I could hear just fine when a cultured female voice spoke.

"Hello, London. So glad you could join my little party," it said.

I had no idea who the voice belonged to, but it sure as hell wasn't Dylan, or Vanessa. I crept up the remaining stairs, switching my grip on the tire iron as I climbed so that I could strike if the opportunity presented itself.

"I felt you calling the little whore," the woman said. "You've gotten stronger. Imagine how much more powerful you'd be if you'd stayed in practice."

I could only guess what the woman meant about feeling London calling, but I was sure she'd just called my best friend a whore, and you just don't do that. Seething, I stepped onto the landing and peered around the boys to see who I was going to have to hurt.

The first thing I noticed about the woman was that she was tall. Really tall. Amazonian, even. With the high-heeled boots she wore, she could almost look London in the eye. She was willowy, but not needs-to-eat-a-sandwich skinny. She had curves.

Tall and built? Yet another reason to want to hurt her.

But it didn't stop there. Oh, no. Fate had decided to throw all my flaws in my face by presenting me with this woman. Appearance-wise, she was everything I wasn't. Tall, thin, perfect skin, full lips, lustrous auburn hair down to her waist. About the only thing we had in common was an over-expanded bust line.

Of course, she was also an evil psycho hose beast, and there are some things you just can't cover up with makeup and designer clothes.

"Julia," London breathed. "What...?"

The Jessica Rabbit lookalike threw back her head and laughed. "You should see yourself, London. You look like you've seen a ghost." She stepped forward to lay one leather-gloved hand against London's cheek. "I've missed you," she said.

Jealousy hit me like a freight train. I pushed past London and Brian, who seemed to be frozen in shock, and stared up at the evil bitch. "You had your chance at him, Jessica," I said.

"Julia," she corrected with a little frown.

"Whatever," I said. "The jig's up, honey. Give us Dylan, and we might let you walk away." Damned if I didn't sound like the badass I was pretending to be. Go me.

"'The jig is up'?" Julia repeated. "Who talks like that?"

"Besides," a familiar voice said from behind her, "It's 'the gig' is up."

I rolled my eyes. Vanessa always did think she knew more than everyone else, especially when she had no clue what she was talking about.

"No, fuckwit, it really is 'the jig is up.' You, we're not letting walk away, not unless it's to a loony bin."

Vanessa started to say something, but Julia held up a hand to silence her. To my surprise, Vanessa actually held her tongue.

"This is all very amusing," Julia said, "but it's getting us nowhere. London, we have so much to talk about."

"I have nothing to say to you," London replied, "and there is nothing you can say that I want to hear."

I looked from Vanessa to Julia and back. The two of them blocked the door to the room where Dylan was trapped. I hadn't heard a sound from her since we'd gotten upstairs, and it worried me more than I dared let show. We had to get past them, or through them, and soon. It would be easy enough for the boys to overpower either one or both of the women, but they still seemed to be in shock. Besides, I figured they'd have a little bit of a problem overcoming the idea that it's wrong for a guy to hit a woman.

Something brushed at my mind, like mental cobwebs, and I felt a wave of calm wash over me. I knew, then, what Julia had meant about London calling out to Dylan, and I understood what he'd wanted to try when we'd stopped outside the house. He could project emotions as well as take them in. Creepy, but useful.

"Brian," I said.

"Yeah."

"Time to play Prince Charming," I said.

Julia seemed to know what I meant. She held her arms up in front of her chest and face, expecting me to swing the tire iron up at her, but I had other ideas.

One thing I learned from years of live-action role-play games is to use my height—or lack thereof—to my advantage. I pitched forward, grabbed her around the calves, and pulled her shiny boots out from under her.

Around me, I heard sounds of struggle and raised voices. Julia stripped off one of her leather gloves and grabbed my face with her bare hand. Her face contorted in rage, and then I knew nothing but pain. An electric shock ran through me, more powerful than anything I'd ever experienced. I couldn't fight. I couldn't get away. I couldn't even scream.

Just as quickly as it'd come, the pain vanished, leaving me weak and shaky. I forced my eyes open to see London grappling with Julia. Either she wasn't using the Taser trick on him or he had some kind of defense against it. Either way, they struggled hand-to-hand, though as the fuzz cleared from my brain I began to realize their fight wasn't physical at all. No punches were thrown, no hair pulled, no chokeholds given or received. Instead, the two merely circled, touching one another when they had an opening.

I tried to pull myself to my feet so I could help, but my muscles didn't want to respond. I could move, but standing was out of the question just then. Glancing around, I saw the tire iron I had dropped, and I began to pull myself toward it, inch by agonizing inch. Maybe by the time I had it in my hand again I'd be able to use it.

Thumps and shouts came from the room beyond, but I couldn't spare more than a thought for Dylan and Brian right now. Vanessa might cause a little trouble, but I knew who the real threat was here.

A year later, my hand closed around the tire iron, and I turned to check on London and his evil ex-girlfriend. She glanced at me, smiled, and then stepped in closer to London. She had him up against a wall; he couldn't back away. She pressed the advantage, stepping in closer to him and cradling his face in her hands. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his, and when she pulled away, his face was a study in anguish.

The bitch was using his own powers against him somehow. I was sure of it.

Brian appeared in the doorway, a glassy-eyed Dylan leaning heavily against his side. Once again, Julia was between him and where he needed to be. This time, though, I knew how dangerous she could be to my friends. London still stood like a statue, frozen with shock and doubt. I had no doubts.

I struggled to my feet, the tire iron clutched in one hand.

"Get her out of here, Brian," I said.

"You take her, and get out," Brian told me.

I shook my head. "I can't. Go, Brian. Please." Praying for strength, I faced Julia again. She laughed.

"You're as weak as a kitten," she said. "You can't fight me. But lucky for you, I don't want to fight. All I want is London. If he stays, of his own accord, the rest of you can do whatever you like."

I didn't believe her, but London did.

"I'll do whatever you want," he said. "Just let them go."

I rolled my eyes. Obviously, London hadn't watched the right movies. The bad guy never means it when she says she'll let people go free. It just doesn't work that way.

"Fuck the dumb shit," I muttered. It was as good a battle cry as anything, I guess.

I staggered across the landing and swung the tire iron. Julia caught it on her forearm; I doubted she'd even have a bruise. The swing had served its purpose, though; it bought Brian time and space to get Dylan safely past.

Julia snatched the weapon from my hand and sent it sailing toward Brian's head. Accurate aim was not one of her superpowers. In fact, she threw like a girl. The iron missed its mark by more than a foot, falling short to bounce harmlessly off the banister.

For a moment, Julia stared after Brian and Dylan. Then she turned toward me, her face twisted with anger and hate. She reached for me with her gloveless hand, and I backpedalled, trying to get away. My muscles were still sluggish, though, and she caught me easily, sending me back into a world made of pure pain.

An eternity later, the pain vanished, just as it had before. I could hear shrieking, tinny and hollow, like voices over a cardboard-tube-telephone. Another hollow, echoing voice sounded near my ear. After a minute, I realized it was London, begging me to be okay.

I forced my eyes open, but they didn't want to focus. Somehow, London got me to my feet and moving. Vision came to me in jumbled bits that made no sense: stucco walls, a gilded banister, hardwood flooring, a woman with flames dancing over her skin.

I shook my head and turned to look behind. The woman was real. So were the flames, but they didn't act like normal fire. Though Julia lay on the floor, beating at the flames, they didn't go out. They just kept dancing over her skin, first reddening then blackening it.

London turned me away, and I let him. But some things stay etched on your brain. Some things you can't forget, no matter how many brain cells you kill with whiskey or weed or prescription drugs. I had a feeling this would be one of them.

I don't know how London got me down the stairs, or out of the house, but we stumbled to the street just as Brian pulled up. They got me into the backseat, where I lay with my head in London's lap. Not the safest way to travel, but I didn't have the strength to sit up.

I slipped in and out of reality for a while, but soon enough the fog began to clear. I heard Brian say "hospital' and forced the word "no" out of my mouth.

"How you feeling, hon," Dylan asked, turning to look back at me.

I've seen a lot of beautiful sights in my life: Caribbean waters and Texas sunsets, white sand beaches and purple mountains, newborn babies and sex-god rock stars. But none of them could rival the sight of Dylan's face there, in that moment. She was okay. We were all okay.

"How do I feel?" I croaked. "Like a million fucking bucks."

Chapter Twelve

In the end, Dylan and I convinced the boys we didn't need to visit the emergency room. I was recovering from whatever the hell it was Julia had done to me, and Dylan swore up and down she was okay, despite having a knot the size of a golf ball on the back of her head where Vanessa had hit her with a ceramic Mickey Mouse.

"I could really use a fucking cigarette, though," she said.

"I thought you quit," Brian replied.

Dylan turned to look at him, and even though I couldn't see her expression in the near-darkness, I knew she was giving him her death glare. Or what passes for a death glare in a cute, petite blonde.

I laughed. With a little help from London, I sat up and got buckled in. My muscle response still felt sluggish, but at least I could see and hear okay again.

"Fine," Dylan said. "I could really use some caffeine, though. And food. And some clean clothes. And a shower. And a bed. And—"

"And we get it," I said.

After very little discussion, we drove back to the well-populated tourist area, near Disney but outside of the resort itself. We stumbled into one of the few all-night restaurants around, where everyone probably thought we had just come from one of the clubs, still drunk. We looked like we'd been through a bar brawl: Brian's shirt slashed from the window glass; Dylan in three-day-old clothes with unwashed, unbrushed hair; me, barely able to walk upright; and London, his eyes sunken and his face pale. If I was them, I'm not sure I'd have let us in.

The whole time we were there, Brian and Dylan touched. One of them always had a hand free to lay on the other's leg or arm. On our side of the table, London kept his distance. I wasn't sure if it was an after-effect of all the magic or of seeing Julia again. I almost didn't care.

Almost.

We avoided the big pink elephant in the middle of the room. Instead, we talked about mundane stuff: the menu, the decor, the other diners. Dylan bitched about having lost all of her luggage and demanded to be taken to Wal-Mart—the only thing open this late at night—for a change of clothes and a toothbrush. Brian suggested that she borrow my clothes for the night and get a toothbrush from the front desk at the hotel. The suggestion was met with another of her ineffectual death glares. Or maybe not so ineffectual, since Brian caved in and agreed to take her shopping. He offered to drop London and me off at the hotel first, and we didn't argue.

I stumbled getting out of the car, and London steadied me, pulling away as soon as I regained my balance. We walked through the hotel side-by-side in silence, London watching me out of the corner of his eye in case I needed help. I didn't.

We rode the elevator up to our floor, still in silence, and made our way down the hall to our room. London pulled out the spare key card and slid it into the reader on the door. The light flashed red, and he tried it again. Still red.

"Damn it," he breathed.

"Let me," I said, reaching for the card. My fingers brushed his, and a frisson of desire ran through me.

We'd touched a hundred times in the past few days, and this shouldn't have been any different, but it was. It wasn't hard to figure out why. On top of the feelings that had been building between London and me, I'd had a brush with death—or as close as I wanted to get, anyway. Something about being faced with our own mortality makes us humans want to have sex. Some primitive need to prove that we're still alive, I guess. Or maybe a need to thumb our noses at Death.

I slid the key card into the reader, and this time the little light turned green. I opened the door and stepped inside. London followed me in, shutting the door behind him. Once we heard the latch click, London turned away from the door. I was standing so near we almost touched. I hesitated, scared to make the first move.

London didn't hesitate but played the opening gambit, though it wasn't at all what I expected. He pulled me against him, cradling my head against his chest, and just held me for a minute or two. I could hear his heart racing, feel it hammering against his ribs under my cheek. My own was in a similar state.

When I couldn't resist anymore, I rubbed my face against his chest. My lips grazed his nipple through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and I grinned when his breath hitched. He moved back, putting distance between us, but only so he could lean down to kiss me. The angle was awkward. I tried to go up on my toes to make it a little easier on London, but my muscles still weren't working quite right. I ended up falling forward, sending us both staggering a few steps until London's back hit the door.

"Maybe this is a bad idea," London said, running a hand up under my hair to stroke the back of my neck.

"Or maybe you're just too damned tall," I countered. I pulled away, took a couple of steps farther into the room, then turned and crooked a finger at London. He grinned and followed.

Kissing London worked much better sprawled out on the bed.

The first kiss was tentative, testing the waters. The second was bolder, mapping out new territory. With the third kiss, London staked his claim on me. It was the kind of kiss that cheesy romance novels describe as "punishing": primitive and almost brutal, built on raw need and blind lust.

If I had fantasized about sex with London—and all the king's horses couldn't make me own up to it—I would have pictured it as tender and romantic, two people learning the nuances of one another's bodies by candlelight. I would never have imagined the frantic race to get undressed, the bruising kisses, the clawing and pinching and biting. I also wouldn't have imagined the utterly unsexy scramble to find a condom. And I definitely wouldn't have imagined earthshattering sex ending in an abrupt eruption of tears.

One second I was riding wave after wave of pleasure, racing for the precipice. The next, I was shaking with sobs, my face turned away so that London wouldn't see. Of course, you can't hide what you're feeling from an empath, but I kind of forgot about that in the moment.

London rolled off of me, and I turned my back to him, curling up in a tiny, shaking ball. A moment later, a warm body wrapped itself around me. I turned over, tucking my head against London's chest. He held me and murmured comforting nonsense. After a while, I felt a trickle of calm, a pale echo of the projection he'd done earlier. Whether because my own emotions were so much stronger and more tangled, or because London was exhausted, the calming trick just didn't work as well this time around, though it did help a little.

My sobs quieted after a little while, and I muttered an apology.

"Uh-uh," London replied. "Don't say you're sorry. You don't have anything to be sorry for."

For some stupid reason, that made me cry even harder. London sighed and kissed my forehead before climbing out of bed. I wanted to beg him not to go, but I couldn't really blame him for wanting to get away from me. Dealing with a meltdown like this is bad enough for a guy when he doesn't have to actually feel it.

London surprised me by crawling back into the bed and pulling me close. He handed me a couple of tissues, and as stupid as it is, my heart melted a little. I dried my eyes and wiped my nose, trying to get myself under control. I owed London that much. I turned over again, my back to him, and he snuggled closer, his arm tightening around me. He pressed his lips to my shoulder then buried his face in my hair.

Cocooned in warmth—both physical and emotional—I reigned in my emotions, bit by bit. The tears subsided, and the tangle of fear, exhaustion, relief, and a million other emotions drained away to be replaced with a comforting numbness. My breathing evened out, and I drifted, not asleep, not awake, but hovering in the netherworld between the two.

Chapter Thirteen

I don't remember being close to crossing the line between sleep and wakefulness, but I must have slipped over it at some point because I startled awake, unsure what had woken me. The door to the hotel room opened then, and I heard Brian's voice. London pulled the duvet up to my chin just before the overhead light blinded me.

"Yeah, I think that we should...oh. Sorry," Dylan said.

I burrowed further under the duvet, hiding my face under pretense of blocking out the harsh light.

"We'll just..." Brian stammered.

"Go," Dylan finished. "We'll just go."

The mattress shifted as London turned away from me to look at our friends.

"It's okay," he said. "Just give us a few, okay?"

"Yeah," Brian replied. "We'll just wait outside."

I heard the door open and shut. I felt the bed shift again, felt London moving away from me, and I peered over the duvet to watch him as he pulled on the clothes we'd scattered across the room. I marveled at the angry red claw marks that I only vaguely remember leaving on his back. Ouch.

When he was mostly dressed and I still hadn't gotten up, London turned to look at me.

"Are you okay?"

I wanted to point out that the question was kind of silly, since I knew he could tell how I felt. I opted for tact instead, or maybe I just couldn't summon the energy to be a smartass.

"Sure," I told him, though I wasn't at all certain it was true.

"Elizabeth—"

"I'm okay," I said, cutting him off. "I just need...can I..." I sighed, not sure how to ask for what I needed. I felt numb and sort of disconnected. I didn't want to have to talk, about anything, and I didn't want anyone worrying over me. "I just need to be alone for a bit," I said at last.

He looked at me for a moment, and then nodded and headed out into the hallway, still barefoot. Once the door closed behind him, I forced myself up out of the bed. I contemplated my discarded clothing for about two seconds before deciding to ignore it in favor of a hot shower.

The warm, stinging spray didn't jolt me out of my near-stupor the way I had hoped it would. Reality still seemed distant, my emotions walled away. I wondered if I might be in shock. That possibility should have worried me, but I didn't feel much of anything.

I thought about how I'd been overwhelmed by emotions just a short time before, resulting in my embarrassing meltdown. Relief, horror, guilt, love, lust, fear, joy, sorrow, confusion, suspicion, and grief had all flooded into my consciousness at once. I hadn't had a chance to sort through them, to make sense of them and process them. They'd just come sweeping in out of nowhere and tried to drown me. Without London there to anchor me, they might have succeeded.

London. God, how he must have felt. But he'd pushed it aside to take care of me.

And just like that, emotion began to creep back in, starting with concern for his well-being. The relief of having Dylan safe followed close behind.

By the time I dragged myself out of the shower, I felt a little more like a real, living, breathing, feeling human being.

I dried my hair, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. Since I hadn't thought to grab my PJs, I wrapped a towel around me and stepped out of the bathroom, prepared to be somewhat embarrassed. I lucked out, though; Dylan was the only one waiting for me.

"So what the hell did you do to poor London? He's kind of freaking out."

Okay, maybe not so lucky. I flipped the security latch on the door, dropped the towel, and started pulling on clothes while I considered my answer.

"How much did Brian tell you about what's been going on? About London, and how we found you?"

"Everything, I guess."

"So you know about the whole empathy thing."

Dylan nodded. "Yeah, I know. And I know you well enough to know he's not freaking out because you got all lovey-dovey on him during the afterglow."

I sighed and flopped down on the bed. "What afterglow?"

"You can't expect me to believe that you two didn't hit it," she said, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Oh, we had sex. We had really amazing sex."

"And?"

"And I completely freakin' lost it, Dylan. I don't even know what happened. But instead of euphoria and afterglow, we got meltdown and crying jag." I sighed again, pulling my feet up to sit cross-legged on the bed. "My feelings were this overwhelming, jumbled up mess. If London had to feel even a fraction of what I was feeling, then I'm not surprised he's freaked."

Dylan's forehead furrowed in contemplation. "He seemed fine when we walked in on you two, but when he came out into the hall he was pretty upset. I thought maybe you had to give him the 'just friends' speech or something."

I shook my head. "I didn't, though. All I said to him was that I wanted a few minutes alone."

"There's something else going on," Dylan said. "There has to be. Maybe Brian can drag it out of him, if he ever gets off the damn phone. Correction, if they ever get off the damn phones."

"Speaking of phones, I guess I better let Alex know you're okay and that he doesn't need to file that missing person report."

"Done. I borrowed your cell while you were in the shower. He and Blas had already left San Antonio. They were up around Georgetown. But at least I caught him before he had my face plastered on the side of a milk carton," she said. "And you so owe me one for listening to him rant instead of making you do it."

"Maybe we can call it even. You know, the whole rescuing-you-from-evil-Jessica-Rabbit thing."

Dylan laughed. "I knew you'd see the resemblance, too! That bitch has issues." The smile slid from her face. "What happened back there, Em? Do we need to worry about her tracking us down?"

I looked away, trying not to remember the sight of flames crackling over Julia's skin and the sound of her pained, terrified shrieks. "I don't really know. London might, but I'm not sure we should ask him."

"Why not?"

"I think...I think he might have killed her, Dylan."

"Good. She needed killing," Dylan replied. Under any other circumstances, I would have been astounded. Joking about offing someone is one thing, but saying it and meaning it is something else. Still, all I could do was agree. The woman had been torturing me, and she'd probably done the same to Dylan. She'd hurt London, too. And I figured what we knew was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. If she hadn't hurt more people and done worse things in the past, she would have at some point further on down the line.

I knew, though, that London's feelings would be a lot more conflicted. After all, he'd loved Julia once. He'd wanted to marry her. Somehow, he'd missed the fact that she was a sociopath. That or something had changed her after their breakup. I wasn't sure it mattered, but I also couldn't help but be curious. Likely, I'd never have an answer, so I pushed the question aside.

"I'm going to hit the shower," Dylan said, scooping a plastic Wal-Mart bag up off the floor. "I feel gross." She made it as far as the bathroom door before she turned back. "Oh, crap. I forgot. Brian talked to Adrian. The rest of the tour entourage is in town, and we've got—well Brian and London have got—rooms at the Hard Rock. We decided to move over there, since four people in a room with one king bed is not only breaking all sorts of rules but also just not likely to end well."

Dylan stepped into the bathroom and shut the door, leaving me alone. I pulled jeans on over my boxers and starting repacking, only to be interrupted by one of the boys trying to get into the hotel room. I had forgotten to disengage the safety latch.

"Sorry," I said to London as I let him into the room.

He gave me a little smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You're feeling better?"

I nodded.

"Good. That's good."

He paid little attention to me as he gathered the few things of his that needed to be repacked. Five minutes later, I'd had all the uncomfortable silence I could stand. I couldn't ignore what had passed between us anymore.

I reached out to touch London's hand, intending only to get his attention. He jerked away and took a few quick steps backward.

"Don't."

"Sorry," I muttered, feeling stupid.

"It's not—" he turned away and slammed his palm against the wall. "Dammit. It's not your fault, okay? Any of it. I just never really learned how to shield, how to protect myself. And with all the magic I've been slinging around, my defenses are pretty much nonexistent."

"It's overwhelming you. Confusing you. Like when you were in high school," I guessed.

"A little. It's easier now to separate my own feelings, at least. But it's worse, too." He leaned forward, resting his weight on his arm against the wall. "It's not just that I can't keep other people out, now. I also can't seem to control the whole projecting thing."

Unease trickled down my spine even before his words sank in. When they did, when the full weight of what he was saying hit me, I began to see my earlier meltdown in a new light. Some of the feelings I hadn't understood surely had been his emotions instead of my own.

Doubt came creeping in on the heels of the relief that realization had brought. If the guilt and grief I'd felt earlier had been London's, then what about the unexpected and overwhelming desire? What about the more tender feelings I'd had for him? Were they mine, or his? Or worse, were they maybe Brian and Dylan's feelings for each other refracted through the prism of London's powers?

London turned around, leaning back against the wall, but he couldn't meet my eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

I didn't know what to say, and it wouldn't have mattered anyway. London pushed away from the wall and fled the room before I had the chance to say a single word.

When the door opened again a few minutes later, I had finished my repacking, found and put on socks and shoes, and was sitting on the bed, hugging the battered old teddy bear I'd fished out of my suitcase. My mind, heart, and body were all exhausted, and I wanted nothing more than to be curled up safe and sound in my own bed, under my own blankets, with my oldest, truest friend, Benny. I don't remember where he got his name, and neither does anyone else, but Benny the bear had been the one constant in my life since I'd gotten him. In nearly thirty-five years, he had never let me down.

I must have looked pretty pathetic sitting there cuddling my archaic bear, because the second that Brian managed to drag his eyes away from the closed bathroom door, he made a beeline for the bed. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, facing me, and opened his arms. It was all I could do to not fling myself at him. Instead, I inched forward until he could wrap me and Benny in a comforting hug. Oddly, it wasn't the first time I'd found myself in this same situation, but with my mind in the state it was in, I couldn't remember why we'd ended up like this before.

Dylan emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later. From the look on Brian's face when he turned to look at her, it was obvious that all he saw was the woman he was head-over-heels in love with, not the baggy AC/DC shirt and cheap yoga pants or the way her wet hair stuck out in all directions like she'd had an accident involving a fork and a power outlet. She joined us for a much-needed group hug that I ended soon after, not wanting to be selfish. Brian and Dylan held on to each other for a while longer before she let him go with a chaste kiss on the lips.

"Where's London?" she asked.

"Waiting in the hallway," Brian replied, reaching out to capture her hands. "He wants us to stay together as much as possible. He says Julia's furious, and he's afraid she'll come after us."

"Not dead, then," Dylan said. "More's the pity."

Brian pulled her down to sit on his lap, the position awkward since he was perched on the edge of the bed. "You said earlier you didn't want to tell your story more than once, that you wanted Elizabeth to hear it when I did."

Dylan shook her head. "Not fair to leave London pacing the hallway while we talk about this. I'll tell you in the car."

I glanced around at all of the suitcases and wondered how we'd manage to get the four of us and our luggage into the rental car. The trunk had been pretty full before without Brian's gear. I had a feeling it was going to be a cramped, uncomfortable ride across town. At least the streets should be clear of traffic this time of night.

Brian kissed Dylan again and then patted her hip to tell her to get up. Dylan rounded up all the toiletries and whatnot out of the bathroom while Brian and I made a final sweep of the hotel room, making sure we had everything packed and ready to go. That done, we carted everything out into the hallway. Dylan dragged the boys' rolling cases, and Brian tried to juggle his and London's carry-ons as well as his guitar. I shouldered my backpack, took London's from Brian over his protests, and dragged my own rolling case out behind Dylan, leaving Brian to glance over the room one last time and shut the door behind us.

London sat on the floor in the hallway, back to the wall, knees up, head buried in his hands. As we spilled out of the hotel room, he raised his head just enough to peer up at us. I expected him to get up, but he just sat there looking defeated. It should have roused my sympathy and concern, but all I felt was vague annoyance. Not knowing whether the feeling came from my own exhaustion or was some echo of London's emotions ratcheted the annoyance up to irritation. I knew it wouldn't take much to push me over the edge to pissed off, so I dropped London's backpack beside him and kept walking.

Halfway down the hallway, I felt a hand on my arm. I knew it was Dylan even before I turned my head to glance at her. She'd ditched London's suitcase, I noticed. I also noticed that she didn't look annoyed or irritated or pissed. Maybe it really was just me.

"We should probably wait for the boys," she said.

I nodded, and we both stopped to wait. I looked back to see Brian crouched down beside London, talking to him in a tone low enough that his voice didn't carry down the hall. He didn't look irritated either. Guess I was just feeling bitchy. Good to know.

After a moment, London nodded, rubbed his eyes, and let Brian help him to his feet. He slung his backpack over one shoulder, took hold of the suitcase handle, and followed Brian down the hall. He still wouldn't look at me, but I suppose I'd kind of given him a reason, now.

Brian and Dylan led us out to the car, making small talk about the hotel along the way. The place was still beautiful, still luxurious, but I knew I'd always associate it with the frantic search for Dylan and everything that went along with it. Maybe one day I would be able to look back and find good memories tucked in among the bad ones, but with the way things were going right now, I kind of doubted it.

Once we were crammed in the rental car, with a pile of backpacks between London and me in the backseat and Brian's guitar riding between Dylan's feet, Brian asked Dylan again to tell her story.

"I'd like to start at the beginning," Dylan said, "but I don't remember the beginning."

"What do you mean?" Brian asked.

"I remember getting on the plane. I remember landing. I even remember riding the little train from the gate to the main building in the airport. But then there's a big blank space."

"Like a blackout?" I asked.

Dylan nodded, and then said, "Yeah, pretty much. The next thing I remember, I'm sitting in a chair in a room that looked like Walt Disney threw up. I don't think I ever want to see Mickey Mouse again."

"I can imagine," I told her.

"Anyway, they kept me bound and gagged most of the time. Sometimes I was tied to the chair and sometimes just tied hand and foot and left on the bed or the floor. They would move the gag to feed me or let me have water, and they'd untie me to let me use the loo, but otherwise not so much. Three days of not moving sucks."

"Did they hurt you?" Brian asked, reaching for her hand.

Dylan threaded her fingers through his, resting their joined hands on the console between them. "Sometimes the redhead would mess with me. She wanted me to know what she was capable of, Vanessa said, though I'm not really sure why."

"She wanted you afraid," London said, his voice rough with emotion. "She wanted us to know you were scared."

"But you weren't," I said. "Not much, anyway. At least not that we knew about, not until right before we showed up."

"The redhead—"

"Julia," Brian interrupted.

"Whatever. She wasn't around much at first, and as long as it was just Vanessa, I really didn't see any reason to be scared. I guess I didn't believe she'd do anything to hurt me," she said, reaching up to touch the knot on her head. "Still can't believe she did, actually."

"You never said what happened to her," I pointed out.

"Brian did this crazy wrestling move thing on her until she passed out."

"I hope you at least kicked her on your way out the door."

Dylan made a small, amused sound. "I would have if I'd been sure I could do it without falling down. I tried to rescue my necklace from her and nearly fell on my face. Took a little while to get used to the whole upright-and-mobile thing again."

"You should have said something," Brian added. "I'd have been happy to help you out with that kicking thing."

Dylan laughed, and Brian answered with a smile. They were so freaking cute it should have made me ill, but I was way too happy for them to mind.

"You did get your necklace back, right?" I asked. Brian had bought the necklace—a delicate rose gold pendant—for Dylan just after they'd met, during the day we'd spent in Key West. It was one of her most prized possessions.

"Brian got it back for me," she said, reaching up with their joined hands to touch the necklace through her shirt.

"Good," I said.

We all lapsed into a brief, easy silence for a few minutes before London asked, "What Julia did to you...what was it like?"

For several minutes, Dylan stayed quiet. When she answered, her voice was low, so quiet that her words were almost lost beneath the hum of the engine and tires on the road.

"I don't even know where to start," she said.

"You don't have to—" Brian began, but Dylan cut him off.

"Yeah, I do. I do have to," she said. She took a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. "She started out small and worked her way up, but even at the beginning it was scary because it didn't make sense. Magic isn't real, or at least that's what we're taught. But I got to experience it up close and personal."

"What do you mean she started out small?" I asked.

"What she did was she made me feel things."

"Emotional things?" Brian asked.

Dylan shook her head. "Physical."

"Pain, in other words," I said.

"Not just pain," Dylan answered, turning to stare out the window at the neon lights.

Not just pain? Oh. Oh, yuck. I know I wouldn't want to feel pleasure at Julia's metaphysical hands. I thought again about the overwhelming desire that had landed me in bed with London, and wondered if Julia had used that pleasure-inducing ability in their fight. The thought that magical lust had pushed us to have sex made me want to hurl. Or punch Julia in the face. Or maybe hurl in Julia's face.

"So, yeah," Dylan continued. "First it was just this creepy-crawly sensation, like caterpillars walking all over me."

"Ew." I shivered. I'm not a girly-girl, but bugs are so not my thing.

"Yeah, exactly. She moved up to itching, which was really annoying. And then to aches like you get with the flu. Then she switched gears, and that's when I started to get scared. I think that might have been this morning." She was quiet for another minute or two, watching the city go by. "Tonight was the worst though. I'm not even sure how to describe it."

"It's kind of like a really bad electric shock," I said.

Dylan turned to look at me. "That's what she got you with?" I nodded, and Dylan frowned. "But it didn't hit me nearly as hard as it did you."

I shrugged. "Maybe for me she turned it up to eleven. One point twenty-one gigawatts of pure pain, all at once, all for me."

London startled all of us with a strangled laugh. "You nearly fucking die, and instead of poetic reminiscences about white light and heavenly beings, you describe it with one of the geekiest, most mixed-up quotes I've ever heard."

Brian glanced at London in the rearview mirror and flashed him a smile. "Told you," he said.

"You did," London admitted. His smile faded then, and he turned again to look out the window.

I wondered what it was Brian had told him, but I knew better than to ask. What I did know was that whatever it was had made London close himself off again and brought gloom crashing back in to replace his momentary cheerfulness. And when London ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

Emotional darkness squeezed its way into the car, making the last few miles of our drive seem endless. Days later, we made it to our hotel. Brian texted Adrian to let him know we were there, he and London picked up their room keys, and then a helpful bellman took charge of our baggage and led us up to our rooms. London stayed as far away from all of us as he could, even insisting on taking a separate elevator. Brian, of course, wouldn't let him go alone, so Dylan and I accompanied the bellman and left the boys to follow.

We stepped out of the elevator to find Adrian waiting for us. He and Dylan had met briefly a couple of months before when the band's tour had taken them through Dallas. I'd been swamped with school and hadn't been able to make it up to see Brian and meet his friends. Dylan had only gotten a handful of hours with her boyfriend and a few minutes with the rest of the band and crew.

Despite the brevity of their previous contact, Adrian greeted Dylan like an old friend, with a brief embrace that didn't quite count as a hug. He introduced himself to me, and we shook hands. Dylan used Brian's key card to let the three of us into his room, where we had the bellman leave all the luggage. Soon after the bellman disappeared back downstairs, London and Brian showed up. A few minutes later, Kent, or Kenny as the boys tended to call him, joined us, too.

London still kept his distance, all but ignoring his friends. Watching him, I noticed that he was concentrating hard on regulating his breathing, a tried-and-true trick for controlling the emotions.

Adrian leaned against a wall, arms folded tightly across his chest like he was cold. He listened to our conversation—small talk, mostly, with a couple of questions about everyone's well-being—and even chimed in a time or two, but he never took his eyes off London. Maybe ten minutes passed before he interrupted Kent in the middle of some story.

"London, what's going on?" he asked.

London, who'd sunk down into an armchair in the corner, just shook his head.

"It's been a hell of a day," Brian said. "He's having a hard time of it."

"I can tell. He's bleeding."

Brian and I both turned to look at London, who looked fine except for the tenseness and exhaustion he'd been carrying since we left the Dolphin.

"Uh. Magic. He's bleeding magic."

"Shit," London breathed. "I forgot."

I looked back and forth between London and Adrian, then glanced at Dylan. She looked as confused as I felt. "Forgot what?" I asked.

"Adrian's a sensitive," London said, pushing himself up out of the chair. "He can sense magic."

Adrian shrugged. "What he said. I knew he was a practitioner the first time I met him. I can tell when he uses his abilities, which has happened maybe twice since I've known him. And right now, I can tell it's, like, radiating off of him."

"Whoa, wait a minute," I said. "If you can sense all that, how the hell did you not know about Julia?"

"Not know what about Julia?" Adrian asked, his forehead crinkling in puzzlement.

Silence reigned for a moment before Brian answered. "She's the one who took Dylan. And she has some seriously scary magical abilities."

Adrian's eyes widened, and Kent let out a startled, "What?"

"I'll explain everything," Brian promised, "but first I think we need to get London to bed."

"I'll second that," London said, but he made no move to leave.

"It's okay," Brian said, gesturing for London to come forward. He levered himself out of the chair, paused for a moment, and then took first one tentative step toward us and then another. When he drew near, Dylan shivered, I moved nearer Brian, and Kent took an involuntary step backward. Adrian seemed baffled.

"What am I missing?" he asked.

Brian looked at Adrian, tilting his head a little to the side in a contemplative pose that reminded me, oddly, of the dog in the old Victrola ads. God, I needed sleep.

"You don't feel it?"

"Feel what?"

London turned and looked at Adrian for a moment. A moment later, he stepped forward and rested a hand on Adrian's shoulder. Adrian laid his own hand on top of London's. His expression never changed.

"You don't feel sadness, like a heavy, waterlogged blanket?" I asked.

Adrian looked at me like I'd grown an extra head. He opened his mouth, probably to ask me what the hell I was talking about, but he was distracted by London wrapping him in a bear hug. Adrian hugged him back, not asking any more questions, at least for now.

As the only one unaffected by London's bleeding magic, Adrian volunteered to help London move his gear to his—London's—room across the hall. While they were gone, the rest of us discussed sleeping arrangements. Kenny offered to let Brian bunk with him so Dylan and I could have Brian's room, but I knew Dylan would want to be in Brian's arms tonight. He also offered to move in with Adrian and let me have his room, but Brian vetoed the idea of my being alone. We were discussing the dubious merits of a rollaway bed when Adrian knocked and Brian went to let him in.

"London okay?" Kenny asked.

Adrian nodded. "Modern medicine is an amazing thing. He's out cold."

"That was fast," Dylan said.

"Yeah, but he was dead on his feet. The sleeping tablet was probably overkill, but now would not be a good time for him to have to fight with his insomnia. And he figured if he was all the way under, maybe he'd stop leaking magic all over the place."

Brian and I both spoke at once. He asked, "Did it work?"

At the same time, I asked a different question. "Why does it matter? It can't affect us if we're not in there with him."

"Yeah, it worked. And even though he never came right out and said it, I'm pretty sure that London assumed he wouldn't be sleeping alone," Adrian said, giving me a meaningful look.

"I guess that settles the question of sleeping arrangements," Kenny added.

I sighed. I didn't mind sleeping in the same bed as London, but the idea of waking up beside him kind of worried me. Still, it was the best option. For everyone else, at least.

Chapter Fourteen

Like London, I had little trouble falling asleep. I was drained emotionally, mentally, and physically. I prayed the briefest of bedtime prayers, snuggled against the warmth of London's bare back, and tumbled headlong into sleep.

I dreamed, and at first they were just dreams, a jumbled up mish-mash of disconnected thoughts and images. At some point, though, the dreams changed, becoming more vivid and coherent.

London and I kissed, and I felt an unpleasant stinging all over, like my whole body had just regained circulation and was experiencing pins and needles. I looked down and saw tiny flames dancing over my skin. I heard a woman laughing, an evil, sinister sound, and when I turned toward the laughter, I saw Julia, her charred skin a harsh contrast against the white of the wedding dress she wore. She waved a massive pink plastic wand, and my skin began to burn.

I woke with a start. A soft, low voice made shushing sounds in the dark room, and a rough hand brushed over my forehead and stroked my hair. I let myself be comforted, sliding back toward sleep, and then all at once I was wide awake.

Who the hell was petting my hair? London—and the other boys in the band, for that matter—might have musicians' calluses, but the roughness of this hand was different. It was the sort that comes from years of manual labor, like gardening or working on cars.

"It's just me," a familiar voice said, as if he'd heard me wondering. "Go back to sleep."

"Ashe? What are you doing here? And how did you get in?"

"I figured you and Stretch could use a friend right about now. Looks like I was right, too," Ashe said. "Now, you go back to sleep so I can. The rest of your questions can wait until morning."

I wanted to protest, but a sense of serenity rose up to wash away my concerns and curiosity. I recognized the feeling as a more subtle version of London's calming trick. If I had never experienced London's version, I might not have even noticed that Ashe was using magic on me. He was good.

I slept, this time without nightmares, and when I woke, I found Ashe dozing in the chair by the bed. As much as I wanted answers, I wasn't rude enough to wake the man. I left him and London both sleeping and went about getting myself awake and dressed.

One of those cup-at-a-time coffeemakers sat on top of the mini-bar, and for half a second I was tempted to brew myself a mug. The thing looked like it belonged on the set of some kind of sci-fi movie, though, and I wasn't entirely sure I could figure out how to use it, especially after the fitful night's sleep I'd gotten. I decided to skip the coffee and see what the mini bar had to offer. Cursing the powers-that-be who had apparently never heard of Dr. Pepper, I settled for an overpriced bottle of juice. I contemplated the snack selection for a moment before remembering that we were staying on the concierge floor of the hotel. Surely there was a lounge somewhere with better food.

I wandered down the hall to the lounge, lingered over coffee and pastries, and wandered back to the room with a steaming Styrofoam cup in each hand. Ashe was awake, and he had figured out the coffee pot, though he was swearing a blue streak under his breath about the tiny cups and the small-batch brewing. He looked up as I stepped into the room, his attention focused on the huge cup of coffee in my hand. I handed it over without a word, and he flashed me a smile that gave me a glimpse of the handsome devil he must have been in his younger days.

"I didn't know if you or London would be up, but I figured if you were and I came back with only one cup, I'd be in a world of trouble."

"That you would have," Ashe replied, taking a cautious sip of his coffee. "And I think you have enough trouble without borrowing any more."

"Ain't that the truth," I said as I took a seat at the little two-person table.

Ashe sat down across from me, both hands wrapped around his cup. "London called me last night, to tell me what happened."

"How much did he tell you?" I wanted to know.

"More than he should have, that's for sure. I reminded him three times that cell phones aren't real secure, but he just kept talking. He was fairly well rattled."

"Well, duh," I said. "Wouldn't you be if you'd found out your ex was a crazy evil sorceress who'd kidnapped your best friend's girlfriend?"

"I already know all of my exes are crazy, and about half of them are evil. Even a couple of sorceresses, as you call 'em, in there. But that's not the only thing that had him worked up last night."

I turned my cup in my hands, staring at it without seeing it, trying not to remember. "I know," I said at last. I glanced at London to make sure he was still asleep, which he was. I kept my voice low just in case. "He tell you what he did to her?"

"I'm guessing you mean the pyrokinesis."

"So he did tell you."

"He did." When he didn't say anything else, I raised my head to meet his eyes. "How do you feel about what he did?" he asked then.

I opened my mouth to ask Ashe when he'd become my shrink, but something held me back. Instead, I took a sip of my coffee while I thought about how to answer. "Satisfied, I guess. And sorry that he has to deal with it."

Ashe raised an eyebrow. "Not afraid? Not worried he won't be able to control it, the way he can't control the rest of his magic?"

I shrugged. "It was creepy as hell, but then all this magic stuff is. And honestly, it never occurred to me that he might not be able to control it. Should I be worried?"

"Not about the pyro, no."

"Good to know. The projecting emotions thing is bad enough."

"It's a pain in the ass, for sure," Ashe agreed. He looked me in the eye. "But we're getting sidetracked. We were talking about what caused London's freakout last night."

"We pretty much covered that—crazy ex-girlfriend, check; crazy flame magic, double check."

Ashe shook his head. "Girl, just how thick is that head of yours? You're missing a couple things." When I just sat there looking confused, Ashe explained. "The crazy ex-girlfriend tried to kill you, for starters. If anything had happened, to you or Dylan, it would have been because the ex was trying to get to him."

"It's not like that's his fault."

"Fault doesn't matter much to guilt in a situation like that, and I think you know it."

"Well, yeah."

"You also scared the hell out of him when you went blank."

"Went blank?" I asked. Then I remembered how numb I'd felt after my meltdown. "Never mind, I figured out what you mean. I think I was going into shock."

"That's what I told him. Told him what signs to look for, but he refused to go near you so I ended up repeating it all to your friend Brian."

"Yeah, I think I kicked off the whole freaked-out thing with my own meltdown," I admitted. I drained my cup but didn't throw it away. I needed something to occupy my hands.

"He told me about that, too. But I think he saw it in a whole different light."

I looked up from the design I was etching on the cup with my thumbnail. "What do you mean?"

"Let me ask you a couple of questions first, and then I'll explain. That okay with you?" When I nodded, he forged ahead. "When you woke up in middle of the night and realized I was here, what happened?"

I gave him a look that said I thought he was nuts.

"I know I was there, Elizabeth, but I want to hear it from your point of view."

"You were petting my hair like my mom used to do when I was little. You told me to go back to sleep, and that you'd answer my questions when I woke up. And you did that emotional-projection thing to help me stay calm so I could sleep."

"Now I want you to tell me about what happened between you and London when you got back to your hotel last night."

I blushed and went back to staring at my cup.

Ashe laid his work-roughened hand on my arm. "Nothing to be embarrassed about. Sex happens. Sometimes even to us contrary old bastards."

I laughed, the sound loud in the still room. I glanced over at London, who didn't even stir. I laid my hand over Ashe's on my arm and answered his question. "One second I was standing there, watching London fight with the room key and trying not to think too much about everything that had happened with Julia, and the next second he touched my hand, and I suddenly wanted him so much I could hardly see straight."

"Could you feel him projecting, the way you felt my magic?"

I thought about it for a minute. Had I? No, I hadn't. "I didn't feel anything, but that doesn't mean—"

"Doesn't it?" Ashe asked, cutting me off. "Can you not tell when his emotions are bleeding all over you?"

I remembered the wet-blanket feeling from the night before. "Well, yeah. Sometimes."

Ashe smiled at me. "Now we're to the explaining part," he said. "The short version is, you can sense it when the emotions being thrown at you disagree with your own emotions. For example, calm versus worried. It might not always be clear that there's an outside influence. Sometimes you just sense it as a kind of cognitive dissonance. Are you with me so far?"

I nodded, casting back in my mind trying to remember everything I'd felt, good and bad, when I'd been alone with London the night before. There'd been a lot of that dissonance Ashe talked about, but not a bit of it had anything to do with the desire I'd felt for London.

"What happens if the emotions being thrown at you mirror what you're feeling?" I wondered aloud.

"It tends to intensify your feelings. You don't want to get into an argument with London while he's this out of control. The anger will ricochet between the two of you, getting stronger and stronger until one of you does something you'll regret."

"Like set fire to someone?"

"Could be. Though I don't think that's what happened with the ex."

"Okay," I said. "Is there a point you're trying to get to with all this?" Ashe looked at me like he couldn't believe I'd just asked that question. "I'm serious. You said you'd explain what you meant about me and London seeing my meltdown in different lights, or something like that, right? Can you just stop leading me around in circles and tell me what the hell you're talking about?"

Ashe set his cup and mine aside and took my hands in his. I had a feeling I wasn't going to like what he had to say.

"London thinks your meltdown, as you call it, was because you had a really big bout of that cognitive dissonance, and he's partly right, I'm sure. But he also thinks it's all about the sex."

I frowned, letting his words roll around in my brain. It took a while for them to sink in, but when they did, I felt tears stinging the back of my eyes. "Are you saying...does he think..."

"He thinks you two ended up in bed together because his feelings overrode yours."

It was an effort to speak around the lump in my throat. "He thinks...he thinks he..." I couldn't do it. I couldn't say the word.

"He thinks he accidentally used his powers like a date-rape drug," Ashe finished for me.

The tears that had been threatening spilled down my cheeks. No wonder London had been a train-wreck. Between setting fire to his ex-girlfriend and thinking—mistakenly—that he'd raped the girl he'd been flirting with...

"You told him he's wrong, right?"

"I didn't know for sure, until I talked to you. It could have been true." He let go of my hands and got up, coming back a moment later with a box of tissues for me. "I'll talk to him when he wakes up." He looked toward the bed as London rolled over in his sleep. "Looks like that'll be soon. You best make yourself scarce. Keep everyone else away, too. He doesn't need any distractions if we're going to make any headway by tonight."

"Headway with what?"

"Shielding. The nitwit is insisting on playing their concert tonight, so I've got less than half a day to get him trained well enough to even half-ass protect himself."

I stared, stunned. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Afraid not. His buddy Adrian tried to talk him out of it, but he's got a bug up his butt about it. Speaking of which, Brian's got a bug up _his_ ass to put you girls on the first plane anywhere but here. I tried to talk him down, but I'm not sure how far I got. Don't let him push you girls into leaving. You'll be safer here."

I started to ask why we'd be safer in Orlando, near Julia-the-clinically-insane, but Ashe cut me off. "You need to go, little bit. We'll talk more tonight."

He didn't give me much chance to argue, herding me toward the door. I managed to snag my cell phone and backpack, and then I was on the other side of the closed hotel room door wondering what to do next.

I stood in the hallway for a few minutes before knocking on the door to Dylan and Brian's room, hoping I wasn't interrupting anything. The door flew open, and Dylan stood in front of me, jaw set and eyes flashing.

"What?" she snapped. Her expression softened when she realized it was me, and she said, "Oh. Sorry."

"Everything okay?" I asked, peeking past her to see a stormy expression on Brian's face. Apparently I had interrupted something, after all, but a fight was not what I had been expecting to break up.

"Yeah," Dylan said, stepping back and waving me inside. "But it'll be better if you tell me you have some money I can borrow. Or maybe a credit card? I'd like to have actual clothes to wear."

"What part of broke-ass college student have you forgotten?" I asked, setting my backpack on the floor near the door.

She sighed and just stood there, looking lost.

Brian stepped up behind Dylan and wrapped his arms around her. "Maybe you can talk some sense into her," he said to me.

I suspected I knew what the two of them had been fighting about. "Let me guess—Brian offered to buy you clothes, and you flipped out on him."

"I did not flip out," Dylan all but snarled.

"You're still flipping out," I pointed out. I watched the two of them for a minute, Brian obviously grateful to have Dylan in his arms even if she was mad at him, and Dylan trying to hold on to her irritation in spite of being wrapped up in his embrace. "I know how important your independence is to you, Dylan, and I know where it comes from, but you're being a bonehead."

Dylan laughed, unconsciously resting her hand on Brian's forearm. "Bonehead? Really?"

"It was the first synonym for 'dumbass' that popped into my head. And it definitely fits. Dylan, honey, you don't have to let him buy you the spring line from Prada or anything, but let him put some decent clothes on you. The homeless street urchin look is so 1990s Seattle." They both laughed, and I was pretty sure I'd won the argument for Brian, but my mouth seemed to be stuck in overdrive. "Hey, you can always make it seem more 'fair' by buying smoking hot and ridiculously uncomfortable lingerie."

"Sounds like a fair trade to me," Brian chimed in.

"Dream on."

"Damn." Brian turned his head to press a kiss against Dylan's temple.

Dylan sighed and pulled away a little so she could look at Brian. "Will you at least agree to let me pay you back?"

"You're going to insist aren't you?" Brian frowned and nodded. "Okay. Fine. You can pay me back."

"Why do I not believe you?"

"Dylan," Brian said, tilting her chin up so he could look her dead in the eye. "I promise you, if it means that much to you, I will let you pay me back."

Dylan nodded and stepped forward to hug him, not letting him see in her face how much his promise meant to her. But I could see Brian's face, and I knew that he knew. He held her for a moment longer, and then fished out his wallet.

Half an hour later, Dylan and I were in a taxi on the way to a nearby mall. No one wanted Dylan going alone, and Brian had all the pre-show rigmarole to deal with, so I volunteered for the shopping expedition. I would have gone along anyway, not only to advise but also to find a few things for myself. I was out of clean clothes, I had no idea when I'd be going home, and I doubted the hotel had self-laundry. So I'd shell out a few bucks for necessities and hope for the best.

At least that was my plan.

Somehow Dylan, who usually didn't give two-tenths of a damn about dressing up, got bit by the fashion bug. I suspected it had something to do with wanting to look nice for Brian, even though Brian cared more about the woman inside than any fancy window treatment. We girls are dumb like that. And somehow Dylan's desire to look cute translated to my needing to dress up as well. Safety in numbers, I guess.

Dylan insisted on paying for the outfit she had talked me into buying, and she tried to pay for the rest of my purchases as well. She's not the only stubbornly independent woman around, though. I had chosen only what I felt I could afford, and I wasn't about to let her charge my clothes along with hers—particularly since I had a feeling Brian wouldn't let her pay him back for my clothes, as a kind of revenge for letting her win the money argument to begin with.

We didn't do as much damage as most girls would do if they were given access to a boyfriend's high-limit credit card. We'd spent a lot of time living paycheck to paycheck, or worse, and hadn't broken the habit of cautious spending. Still, we managed to rack up a fair amount of debt in the hours we spent shopping. Malls are dangerous for just that reason.

Tired and laden with shopping bags, we grabbed a late lunch at the food court, and then made our way back to the hotel. Dylan got us up to the concierge floor and back into Brian's room with the key he'd given her. He was nowhere to be found, and Dylan borrowed my phone to call and check on him.

I stretched out on the bed while she went onto the balcony to talk to Brian. When she came back, she curled up beside me and gave me back my phone.

"The boys are revamping the set list on Ashe's orders," she said. "Something about emotion and rollercoasters. There was a lot of background noise."

I thought about it for a minute. "Ashe is trying to give London a crash course in controlling his empathy, but I guess he's got the boys working on a backup plan."

"Ah. That makes a little more sense," Dylan replied. "Anyway, he said Ashe will come find us closer to show time and escort us down to the venue, if we want to go. He actually said that—if we want to go."

"Like, A, we'd miss the show and, B, we'd be okay with not being able to keep an eye on them?"

"Boys are dumb."

"Amen, sister."

Chapter Fifteen

"So I guess Brian changed his mind about sending us away," I noted as Dylan and I moved about the hotel room after a cat nap, beginning the process of getting ready for the concert.

"Its way easier to win an argument with a guy when he wants to lose," Dylan replied. "He didn't really want to let me out of his sight, and he didn't think he'd be doing London any favors by getting rid of you."

"Yeah, well, he might be wrong about that."

Dylan shrugged and ran a brush through her hair, which was still wet from the shower. "I know I'd worry more about them if we weren't here where we can see that they're okay. Brian feels the same way, and I'm sure London does, too, even with the weirdness between you two."

I took the brush out of Dylan's hand and motioned for her to follow me into the bathroom. "It's complicated. More complicated than I realized. But hopefully Ashe can straighten things out," I said as I positioned Dylan where I wanted her and picked up the hair dryer. I switched it on, but Dylan turned around and took it from me, turning it off again.

"Ashe is trying to fix your love life?"

"He's trying to clear up a misunderstanding that has to do with London's empathy," I explained, taking back the hair dryer.

"What misunderstanding?"

I shook my head and started blow-dying Dylan's hair. I didn't really want to talk about it, and we needed to finish our unnecessary primping.

To Dylan's credit, she actually waited for me to finish drying her hair before she repeated her question. Leaning against the doorjamb, I took a deep breath and then told her about my conversation with Ashe.

"What an idiot," Dylan said, with a little shake of her head. "Not that I wouldn't be, in his position, but still. It's pretty obvious how you feel about him."

"Just because I like the guy, it doesn't necessarily mean I wanted to sleep with him."

Dylan gave me a hard, flat look that spoke volumes.

"I'm not saying I didn't want to. I think I just established that I did. I'm just saying, he could have been right. It could have happened. So I understand how he must feel." I turned toward the mirror and started on my makeup, what there was of it. I hadn't packed for primping, but we'd picked up eyeliner and lip gloss at the mall.

"I guess I can see that," Dylan replied as she lined her lids.

We finished getting dressed, and I looked at myself in the mirror with a critical eye. My dark hair was down and loose, flowing in soft waves to just past my shoulders. Even though my makeup was minimal, it did its job well, putting a little color in my face and making my eyes stand out. The outfit Dylan had talked me into was cute, rather than sexy or slutty, and comfortable. I'd vetoed the sandals Dylan had liked, opting to wear my Converse with the denim skirt and halter top. I couldn't decide if I looked like I actually was a young 20-something or like I was simply trying and failing to recapture my lost youth.

I heard the bathroom door open and turned to ask Dylan's opinion, but I kind of forgot what I was supposed to be asking. I hadn't seen what she'd picked out to wear tonight, lost as it had been in the pile of clothes she'd tried on. I couldn't have been more shocked if she'd come out of the bathroom wearing a flour sack. Dylan—who still hadn't admitted that grunge was dead, believed a flannel shirt goes with everything, and swore that she'd wear jeans to her wedding if she ever married—was wearing a dress. A cute one, too. With the sandals I had decided not to buy.

"Wow, Dylan. You look like a girl."

"Yeah. Watch out for falling icicles."

I laughed. "I don't think you wearing a dress qualifies as hell freezing over. I mean, I do seem to recall it happening at least once before."

A lovestruck smile spread across Dylan's face. "Yeah, I think I remember that, too."

I smiled, too. Seeing my soul sister happy made me happy—it's just that simple.

A knock on the door drew us out of our musings, and I went to peek out the peephole. It was Ashe, so I opened the door. Only after the door was open did I realize that another man stood in the doorway, out of sight of the peephole. I went on alert, that good old fight-or-flight response kicking in.

"Stand down, princess," Ashe said. "He's with me."

I shook it off and stepped back to let the two men into the room.

Ashe shut the door behind them, and then turned to me and Dylan. "Are you two ready to get this train wreck on the road?" The other man elbowed him. "Yeah, yeah. Ladies, Quinn. Quinn, ladies."

"Quinn?" I asked.

"Robert Quinn," the man said, offering me his hand.

"Elizabeth Morgan," I replied, giving his hand a firm shake.

He introduced himself to Dylan as well, and then I asked again, "Quinn?"

Quinn laughed. "I get that a lot," he said.

I could only imagine. With his golden skin, glossy, deep brown—or was it black?—hair, and dark, tilted eyes, he couldn't have looked less like a "Quinn." Maybe a Nguyen, but not a Quinn.

"My mom's Korean," he said, "and Dad's a Scot."

"If show and tell is over," Ashe interrupted, "I'd rather not leave London alone any longer than is necessary."

"I take it you didn't have much luck teaching him to shield," I said.

"He picked it up just fine, but I want to be near to hand, just in case."

I knew he was in a hurry to get back, but I was tired of having questions and no answers. "He said he had a hard time learning the shielding thing before. But it worked today?"

Ashe sighed and rubbed his temples with one hand. "Every practitioner has different abilities—you've seen enough to have guessed that. Now, what I'm about to tell you goes no further than this room." He met first my eyes and then Dylan's. I knew he was deadly serious.

"Different people have different abilities. Mine are pretty much limited to empathy, pyrokinesis, and the ability to erect shields. London's a natural empath, and he seems to have some natural ability with foresight."

"And the pyrokinesis thing," I added.

"No. That's not his. I'm afraid that one is my fault."

"What do you mean your fault?" Dylan asked before I could.

"London's what we call a mimic."

"And what does that mean, exactly?"

It was Quinn who answered. "You know how everyone jokes about learning by osmosis? Mimics can more or less do exactly that. They aren't limited to their own natural abilities, but can learn new ones, usually just be seeing them performed."

"Wait. Whoa. What?"

"When you came to Key West, I showed London my abilities and told him a little about my past. I didn't know then what he is," Ashe explained.

"So you showed him how to do the fire trick and he could just do it?"

"Emergency situations tend to bring magic into play unconsciously," Quinn said. "That's often how someone finds out he or she has abilities."

"I figure London's magic gave him what he needed to save you," Ashe added.

I shuddered, remembering the pain. Remembering how I'd thought I would die, and that I would welcome it because it would make that pain stop.

Dylan hugged me, and I wrapped my arms around her for a minute.

"So, what's her name—Shelley. She didn't know how to do the shield thing, and that's why London couldn't learn it?"

Ashe shook his head. "For most people, shielding is just learning to control your powers, to open and close your mind. That's a hard thing for a teenager to learn under the best of circumstances. It'll be easier for London to learn now that he's older and wiser. Hell, he's already making good progress. But it'll take time. We needed a quick fix."

"Ashe has a fairly unique ability," Quinn added, "in that he can put up metaphysical walls. He can shield himself from outside influence, and he can shield others from third-party influence."

"You showed London how to do that," Dylan said.

"Yes and no. I showed him, but until he's worked with it quite a bit he won't be able to protect himself or others from another practitioner. But he can use the shields to keep his empathy in check."

"So he'll be okay tonight."

Ashe snorted. "Between the shields and all the other precautions I have in place, he might be able to get through the night without making too much of a mess of things. Now, do you girls want to keep talking metaphysics, or do you want to go watch 3,000 screaming women drool over your boyfriends?"

"Well, when you put it that way...let's go."

Chapter Sixteen

I'd never been backstage at a concert before, and I felt a little giddy as we wove our way past security and techs and who knows who else to make our way to the green room. Kent, Brian, and some men I didn't know were deep in conversation, but I didn't see Adrian or London anywhere. Brian turned around as if he could sense us, his eyes going directly to Dylan. They widened a little at the sight of her in the dress.

Dylan went to hug her man, and I turned to ask about London. Either Ashe knew where my mind would be or he felt my concern, because he answered my question before I could ask it.

"They're in one of the dressing rooms. London needs the quiet time, away from people, and Adrian's keeping him company."

"Can I—" I began, but Ashe cut me off.

"Probably not the best idea, princess. Distraction isn't what he needs right now."

"I just kind of need to see him. Like, literally see him. Just to know he's okay."

Ashe nodded. "Keep your distance, you hear?"

I agreed, and Ashe led me to a nearby room. I peeked inside to find London and Adrian roughhousing. Boys.

Much the same way Brian had, London knew I was standing in the doorway even though I hadn't made a sound. With Brian it had been some sort of soulmate thing, but with London I knew it was his magic, his empathy. He looked up at me, and I gave him a little wave.

Adrian disentangled himself from whatever faux wrestling move London had him in and headed for the door, surprising me with a hug on his way past. He surprised me even more by getting Ashe to leave the room with him, without even saying a word. He just touched Ashe's arm in a "come with me" gesture, and Ashe followed. I wondered if Adrian had some superpowers of his own.

The door closed behind the men, and I just stood there, not sure what to do or say. I finally settled for asking, "Are you sure about this? Playing tonight I mean?"

London sighed, plopped down on the sofa, and leaned his head back against the wall. "You're like the hundredth person to ask me that. I'm absofuckinglutely sure, okay? Can everyone just stop fucking asking me that?"

His reaction didn't really do much to reassure me. "Okay. Sorry. I'm just a little concerned is all."

"You and everyone else. I'm fine. I can do this. I want to do this. Playing live is the best part of what I do. It's who I am." He crossed his arms tight across his chest.

"And you don't want the metaphysical stuff to get in the way of that."

"No. It's not that I don't want it getting in the way; it's that I can't let it get in the way. I play music. It's who I am. Without that...I don't even want to think about it." He hugged himself a little harder, and I could see his blunt nails making crescents on the pale skin of his arms.

"I get that," I said. "But that doesn't mean you have to play this show, tonight. It's not too late—"

"Yeah. Yeah, it really is," he said, cutting me off. "I really need you to go now. I can't seem to keep you out of my head, and you can't be there right now. I know I scare you, and that's not what I need right before I go on stage."

Scared of him? I wasn't scared of London. Was I? He didn't give me a chance to think about it.

"Please just go," he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

I went.

Ashe met me at the door, disapproval written across his face. He brushed by me and went to do damage control. Adrian, who'd been waiting with him, hugged me again.

"I don't know what happened in there, but by the look on your face it was nothing good."

I shook my head. "I'm not sure what happened, either. But I have a bad feeling about tonight."

"It'll be okay," Adrian promised. "We've got backup plans for our backup plans. We're gonna go out there and play a great show, and everything's going to be just fine." He sounded like he believed it, and that helped me to believe it, too.

We went to join the others, and Brian greeted me with a hug. I held onto him a little longer than might be considered appropriate, but neither he nor Dylan minded.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," I lied with a big smile. Brian gave me a look that said clearer than any words that he wasn't buying it. "Okay, I'm not fine, but it's nothing to worry about. Besides, you have other things to deal with."

"Yeah. It's almost that time."

Ashe joined us a moment later. "He's all right," he said to me before I could ask. "I'm going to keep an eye on him during the show and stay close by in case of emergency. You girls go with Quinn. He's your bodyguard tonight, just in case."

"Ladies," Quinn said, with a slight nod. "I'll show you to your seats."

"Seats?" Dylan and I asked in unison.

"Who the hell sits at a rock show?" I asked.

"You do," Quinn replied. "At least you do tonight. General admission area is too risky, too hard to watch. We've got you in a box."

"But—" Dylan started to protest.

Brian stepped forward and cupped Dylan's face in his hands. He looked her in the eye and said, "I'll be able to see you, and you'll be able to see me. And you'll be safer." He leaned in and kissed her, a soft press of lips that silenced any protest.

From her, at least. It didn't do a damned thing to shut me up. "And what about keeping you guys safe? How is the stage somehow safer than the crowd?"

"I'll be near to hand," Ashe said. "Besides, anyone would be a fool to try something with 3,000 pairs of eyes focused on the stage."

I still wanted to argue, though I wasn't sure why. Even if I were close to the boys, there wasn't much I could do if danger did rear its ugly head. With a feeling of foreboding, I followed Quinn and Dylan to the box that had somehow been procured for us. We found our seats and settled in for what I suspected would be a very stressful night.

There isn't a lot to do while you're waiting for a rock show to start. You can listen to whatever canned music is blaring over the sound system. You can people watch. If you're there with friends, you can talk about the band and what songs you hope to hear.

In my case, I didn't care about any of that, so my mind reverted to its favorite pastime—worrying. I thought about what London had said in the dressing room, that he knew I was scared of him. That meant he felt fear coming from me. What had I been afraid of in that moment?

I closed my eyes and tried to remember everything I'd thought or felt—not an easy task. Bit by bit, it came back to me. I had been concerned about London, unsure whether his shields would hold under the emotional weight of thousands of people. I had felt both frustration because of his stubbornness and admiration of his courage and determination. I had also felt a tenderness toward him that I hadn't let myself feel for any man in a long time. As I realized and accepted that fact, I knew why London had felt fear from me. He was right; I was afraid of him. More to the point, I was afraid of the feelings I'd developed for him in such a short period of time. I was scared to death that I was falling in love with him.

Before I had a chance to fully process that realization, the canned music went away and our boys took the stage. I tried to push my thoughts and emotions aside and lose myself in the music, but it wasn't easy. Music is emotional and thought-provoking under most circumstances, but more so that night. Somehow, being unfamiliar with the songs made it worse. Hearing some of the lyrics for the first time in that setting under those circumstances gave them more impact and made me see them in a different light than I might have otherwise. It also didn't help that Brian kept looking up at us, as if to make sure that we were still there.

With every song the guys played, I felt a little more hopeful that we would all make it through the set without any kind of catastrophe. Though Quinn maintained a constant vigil, there seemed to be no trouble on the horizon. On stage, London seemed fine, feeding off the energy of the crowd no more than any other musician might.

Just a little over halfway through the show, Brian said something to Adrian out of reach of the microphones and then made a little hand sign to the other boys. As soon as the song they were playing ended, most of the band left the stage, leaving Adrian alone with his guitar for a solo acoustic number. Near the end of the song, the rest of the band came back—all except London. Jimmy took London's place behind the drums, and I fought down a wave of panic as I turned to Quinn.

"Where is he? What's going on?"

"I'm sure he's just backstage with Ashe," Quinn said. "This was all part of the contingency plan."

"I take it he told Jimmy then?"

"Yeah. Kid took it pretty well. Started calling London a Jedi."

I shook my head and turned my attention back to the stage, trying to keep my worry down to a manageable level. Whatever was happening, there wasn't a damned thing I could do about it. The song ended, and Adrian took a minute to talk about something or other. I'll never know what he said, because London walked back out on stage just then. I guess some of what I was feeling must have been obvious, because Dylan laid her hand on my shoulder in a gesture of comfort and concern. I flashed her a smile to let her know I was okay.

The show went on. Nothing cataclysmic happened, and London didn't leave the stage again until he walked off with the rest of the band before the first encore.

"Time to go," Quinn told us.

He led us back to the green room where we watched the rest of the show on monitors and waited for the boys to join us. Two encores and a big, dramatic bow later, the band strolled off the stage and came directly to the green room. Dylan greeted Brian at the door, and they shared a brief, sweaty hug. London came in right behind Brian; his pupils were blown and he was sort of bouncing as he walked. He looked like he was strung out on speed, but I knew better. He was high all right, but it had nothing to do with drugs.

London spent a minute or so exchanging verbal pats on the back with his friends, and then he turned his head and our eyes met. I felt a sudden spark of need, of lust. The spark flamed up so fast it should have scared me, but it didn't. Now that I knew what to look for, I recognized the multiplier effect Ashe had described, but I was still powerless to stop it.

London bridged the distance between us in a few long strides, capturing my face in his hands and bending low to kiss me hard. The desire built between us, and London gave into it. He pulled me hard against him, his mouth eager and demanding against mine. His hands slid up beneath my skirt, gliding over skin and satin and lace. I pushed up onto my toes, trying to make up some of the difference in our height, and London spun us around so that my back was against a wall. He lifted me up a little, and I wrapped a leg around his waist.

Raised voices and the sound of a scuffle cut through the fog in my brain. And just like that I realized that I was all but having sex in front of an audience. I'm so not an exhibitionist.

The cognitive dissonance Ashe had talked about rose up and put a wall between me and London. He let me down, his face shuttered, and backed away.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice hoarse. "God, Elizabeth, I'm so sorry."

I shook my head and stepped forward, intending to lay my hand on his arm in a gesture of comfort. London backpedalled until he hit the opposite wall.

"Don't touch me," he begged. "I can't handle that right now."

"Well that's pretty fucking obvious," I snapped. "You couldn't have figured that out before you tried to fuck me in front of our friends?"

I clapped a hand over my mouth, not sure where the words or the anger had come from. I concentrated on my feelings and thoughts, and once again I recognized the ripple effect of our combined emotions. I shook it off.

"London, I don't want to be pissed at you, dammit. Get your shit together."

"I can't," he admitted. "I can't." He slid down the wall to sit with his knees drawn up and his head down, his arms covering his head.

I felt sadness welling in me, tears pricking the back of my eyes, but I knew that sadness wasn't mine. I was still working on the angry thing. But I needed to shelve it. If London couldn't put himself back together, someone else would have to do it for him. He couldn't go on feeling like this. It wasn't right, and it wasn't fair.

Someone was asking if I was okay, but I ignored him and went to kneel at London's side. He looked up at me with fear in his eyes as I fought to push away the weight of his emotions to focus on my own. I cupped his face in my hands, smoothing my thumbs along his cheekbones, concentrated on all the emotions whirling inside of me and letting him feel them: my gratitude for his help in finding Dylan and for saving me from Julia; my admiration for his strength and determination; my frustration with his bull-headedness; my concern; my compassion; my affection and adoration. I let London feel that I was falling for him.

And just like that, the dam broke.

Tears slid from the corners of London's eyes to spill over his cheeks. I wiped them away even as I felt answering tears of my own. London leaned forward to wrap his arms around me and hide his face in my hair. The position was awkward, and I had to fight to keep my balance, but I didn't mind.

London's feelings—doubt, and fear, and hope, and the first stirrings of love—and the echo of my own, amplified by his powers, washed over me. The rest of the world faded away, and there was nothing but the two of us. The tide of our emotions doubled and redoubled until I thought we must surely drown.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and the flood of emotions disappeared as if someone had flipped a switch. I opened my eyes to find Ashe kneeling beside London and me. I knew now what Ashe had meant about shielding against a third-party influence.

"Come on, Stretch," Ashe said, "if you can stand, we need to get you upstairs. We've all had enough excitement for one night."

I felt London nod against my neck, but he made no attempt to move. I pulled away enough to look him in his teary eyes. Dylan, bless her, handed me a couple of tissues which I handed to London. I acted as a human shield while he mopped his face and got himself under as much control as he could.

Ashe and I got London up and moving, and Dylan and Quinn left with us to go back to our hotel rooms. There was a little debate about whether Brian should join us, Ashe arguing that there were things Brian needed to hear. Brian refused to come with us, even though I knew he didn't want to let Dylan out of his sight. He felt he needed to stay with the other boys in the band to do the picture and autograph thing and to do some damage control where Jimmy was concerned. London's empathy bleed had hit the younger man like a freight train, and he was pretty shaken.

The five of us went up to London's room. He headed for the shower, and as much as I wanted to join him, I did my best to bury the thought. London must have felt the intent behind it though, because he shivered and leaned against the door jamb for a moment before locking himself into the bathroom.

Ashe shook his head. "Guess I was right about you being trouble after all."

I shrugged. "It comes naturally."

Ashe grinned at me. "I just bet it does."

He sat down at the table, and Quinn sat down across from him. Quinn retrieved a laptop case from under the table and pulled out an oversized notebook computer. He booted it up, ignoring everyone else.

"Okay, girls," Ashe said. "We got through this hurdle. It's time to start preparing for the next one."

"How do we do that?" Dylan asked, sitting down on the bed and pulling the duvet over her legs so she didn't have to remember to be ladylike in her dress.

"We're gonna start by talking about magic," Ashe said. "I told you earlier about how everyone has different abilities. And I told you London picked up the flame magic from me. I told you that he's a mimic. What I didn't tell you is that mimics are really rare. I've only known one other than London. I met her the same place I met Quinn here."

"Which is where exactly?" I asked, pulling bottles of water from the mini fridge. I kept one, gave one to Dylan, offered one to each of the men.

"We met through work," Ashe said, accepting his bottle of water.

Quinn looked up from his computer, smiling at me as he took the water. "Thanks," he said. And then, "Ashe and I were both recruited by an agency that doesn't officially exist. A government agency."

"Like the CIA?" I asked.

Quinn laughed. "Please. The CIA wish they were us."

"So you're what?" Dylan asked. "The magic police?"

"Essentially," Quinn confirmed.

"There are different branches of the agency," Ashe explained. "Quinn works in internal affairs. I was part of the terrorist response team."

"Terrorist response team?" I asked, curling up in the armchair.

Quinn turned his chair and scooted it back a little so that he could see me, Ashe, and Dylan. "Yeah, there are magical terrorists. The response team tracks down suspects. Brings them in for questioning. That sort of thing."

Ashe snorted. "I thought we agreed to tell the whole truth," he said.

Quinn nodded. "Yeah, okay. Sometimes the response team has to deal with things on their own. Sometimes they're put into situations where they can't bring suspects in."

"Oh, hell, Quinn," Ashe interrupted. "What he's dancing all around here is that people get killed. Sometimes it's self-defense, but other times it's assassination, plain and simple."

Dylan and I were both quiet a moment. We looked at each other and nodded.

"People like Julia?" Dylan asked.

"Yeah."

"Did you use your magic flames trick?" I wanted to know.

Ashe snorted again. "If you'd seen me do it, you wouldn't call it a trick. What London did to the ex, that's just a faint shadow of what I can do."

"We call him 'Ashe' for a reason," Quinn added.

"Shit," I said, my eyes going wide. "Remind me not to piss you off."

Smiling a little, he shook his head. "You keep surprising me, princess. A lot of people—a lot of women—hear the word 'assassination' and run screaming."

Dylan and I exchanged a glance, and I shrugged.

"Some people need a good killin'," I said.

Quinn tried to smother a laugh and ended up choking on it.

"Don't get me wrong," I added, "I know it's a big deal. I don't think I could do it myself. But I'm not going to judge you for doing what you had to do."

"And if it were London?" Ashe asked. "If he'd killed Julia?"

"I'd probably love him even more." I covered my mouth with my hand, shocked by what had just popped out. I seemed to be doing a lot of that tonight. I sat there stunned for a moment before lowering my hand to my lap. "I don't mean that. I don't love him. I barely know him."

Dylan rolled her eyes. "I seem to remember saying the same thing about Brian right after we met. Just trust me on this one, Em—don't fight it."

I shook my head.

"Elizabeth," Ashe said, making me look up at him. "One, remember that there are all types of love. Just because this is the first, temporary kind, it doesn't make it any less real. And it can lead to the lasting kind. And two, as important as I know it is for you, your love life is not the most important thing right now."

I felt like throwing my water bottle at him for making me feel like an awkward teenager. I reigned it in, though, opting to drink the water instead of using it as a projectile weapon.

"Anyway," Quinn said, "the point we were trying to make, once upon a time, is that the agency would love to get their hands on London."

"And we don't want that to happen," Ashe said. "So here's hoping his little stunt tonight didn't draw the wrong kind of attention. One more thing we'll need to watch out for."

"Why's London so attractive to them?" Dylan asked.

"Being able to learn new abilities, especially as easily as he does—that's pretty useful," Quinn explained. "And London's got a lot of power. He'd be one hell of an agent."

"But he wouldn't want that," I said.

"Hell no, he wouldn't," Ashe said. "It's sheer hell. I wouldn't wish it on my ex-mother-in-law, much less a nice kid like London."

"Lucky for him, I'm in a position to misdirect the powers that be and keep them from noticing him. Hopefully," Quinn said.

London emerged from the bathroom then, damp from the shower and dressed in nothing but pajama bottoms. I tried to ignore him, worried about starting another domino reaction, but he made a beeline for me. "Up," he said, and I complied. He took my chair and then pulled me down onto his lap.

"You got your shields back up," I noted.

"Yup," was all he said as he pulled me down for a chaste kiss.

I looked up to find Ashe and Quinn having one of those silent conversations I'd grown to hate. This one ended when Quinn asked a question I never would have expected.

"So, this Julia. What does she look like?"

I felt London tense, and I moved my hand to rub the back of his neck. He relaxed a little.

"Jessica Rabbit," Dylan replied. "She looks like Jessica freaking Rabbit."

"Who?" Quinn asked.

We all looked at him like he'd sprouted horns, and then Ashe explained the reference. Dylan and I chimed in with more specific details on her appearance, and all the while, Quinn tapped away on his keyboard.

"Okay. And what kind of abilities does she have?"

Dylan shuddered and pulled the duvet up to hug it against her chest.

"She can make you feel pain," I said. "Or pleasure, apparently."

"Anything else?"

We were all quiet for a minute, thinking, but if Julia had any other super powers, I didn't know what they might be.

"I don't know," London answered for us all. "But Adrian can see magic. And he never knew she had any ability. I'm not sure what that means."

Quinn and Ashe looked at each other, and I didn't like what I saw pass between them.

"Bad juju?" I asked.

"Yeah," Quinn said. He tapped on the keyboard some more. Then he turned the laptop to where London and I could see it. "That her?" he asked.

London's shields buckled. Wrapped up in his arms, I could feel his grief and confusion. I hugged him hard, fighting to keep my own emotions in control. I heard a chair scrape against carpet as London buried his face against my shoulder. Ashe laid his hand on London's head, and the torrent of pain and guilt washed away on a gentle wave of tranquility.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Quinn said.

A moment passed in silence, and then Dylan asked the question that was only just forming in my mind: "Why's the wicked witch of the west on your laptop?"

"Ashe told you earlier that I work in internal affairs. Being in IA, I have access to a database of everyone who works for or has worked for the agency."

"Wait. Whoa," I said. "Are you saying Julia is one of your agents?"

"No," Quinn said, shaking his head. "Not anymore. She's gone rogue."

London turned his head a little to look up at Ashe, his eyes wide. "I don't understand."

Ashe sighed and dropped his hand down onto London's shoulder. "I'm not entirely sure I do, either, kid."

"It's like this," Quinn said, only to be cut off by a knock on the door.

Dylan slid from the bed and hurried to peek through the peephole. She flung the door open to let Brian, Kenny, and Adrian inside, giving Brian the briefest of hugs as she let the door swing shut.

Brian's eyes went from London to the picture of Julia on the laptop and back to London, his feet carrying him forward before he could have had time to make sense of what he'd seen. Ashe moved aside, and I could tell that London's shields were up again. Brian half-sat on the arm of our chair and rested his hand on London's shoulder just as Ashe had done.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Ashe brought Brian and the others up to speed. He also asked after Jimmy, who was calmer now but had opted to stay out of the whole magic mess. I figured Ashe had asked for London's sake, because I got the feeling he didn't really think much of Jimmy. Then he and Quinn asked Adrian a little about his ability to sense magic and his lack thereof where Julia was concerned

"Being able to mask your abilities like that, it's all but unheard of," Quinn noted. "There are two people in the database with that power. Both are recruiters. But it's not listed in Julia's dossier."

"Why does 'recruiter' sound sinister the way you say it?" Kenny asked.

"Because it kind of is," Quinn replied.

"Recruiters for the agency aren't like recruiters for nine-to-five jobs," Ashe added. "Sometimes it's someone who can sense magic."

"Like Adrian?" Dylan asked.

"Not exactly. Sounds like Adrian's abilities are limited to seeing magical auras and being immune to some forms of magic. A recruiter who can sense magic will have other abilities as well and can also tell how much magical potential a person has. Sometimes they work alone, and sometimes they work with another agent who has a better likelihood of swaying the prospective recruit to join the agency."

"It wasn't real," London said. His shields wavered, and I pressed a little closer to him, saw Brian grip his shoulder a little tighter. "It was a setup, from the very beginning. God, I feel like such a..." He grappled for the right word for a minute before shaking his head. "I feel so damn stupid."

"She fooled all of us, London," Adrian said, moving to sit on the end of the bed so he could look his friend in the eye. "We all thought she was the real deal."

"I was going to marry her, and I didn't even really know her," London added.

Brian made a little sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. "You wouldn't be the first," he said.

"Hell, no, you wouldn't have been," Ashe added. "I made the same mistake—a few times."

London smiled a little in spite of himself. "This is different."

"Just a different level of crazy on her part," Ashe said. "I had one of my exes try to kill me. Tried to run over me with my own truck—and back then I drove a full-size."

The smile fell from London's face and he hugged me even closer. "She didn't try to kill me. She tried to kill Elizabeth," he said. "Me, she's still trying to recruit."

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Dylan said. "That's what this whole kidnapping me thing was about? Turning you into some kind of government agent?"

"No," Quinn said. "She's not agency anymore. If she's trying to recruit him now, it's for something else. Don't think we'd let one of our recruiters get away with endangering anyone like that."

Dylan inclined her head toward him as if to say "point taken." "Fine, whatever. But still. She kidnapped me to get London's attention? That's more than a little nuts."

"Nuts, yeah, but with a certain sort of logic," Kenny pointed out. "She knew he'd do anything he could to help Brian."

"What I want to know is how she even knew about Dylan. We've kept things pretty quiet."

Quinn shrugged. "There are plenty of ways she could have found out about her. All it would really take is a little surveillance in the right place at the right time. If Julia is looking to recruit London, she's probably been watching him and everyone around him for a while."

I felt London shiver. "No one I care about is safe," he said.

"That's what really doesn't make sense, though," Dylan chimed in. "Why me? Not that I'd rather it be your mom or anything, but..."

"And how the hell did Vanessa get involved?" I asked. "She's about as magical as an egg."

Ashe shook his head. "There are a lot of questions we might not ever get the answers to. What's important is that we know who and what we're dealing with."

"And knowing is half the battle?" I asked. It came out more sarcastic than I'd intended, but I didn't feel too bad about that.

"As far as all of you are concerned, it's the whole battle," Quinn said. "The agency will deal with things from here. We'll arrange for bodyguards and surveillance for all of you."

"Good God, you really are a government agent," I said. "Dumb as a fucking boot."

Quinn's jaw dropped in surprise, and I saw amusement sparkle in Ashe's eyes.

"Told him you'd disagree with his grand plan," he said.

"Damned right I disagree with it. Just go home and sit and wait for the crazy bitch to play her next card? Fuck that. Fuck that a lot."

"I'm with her," Dylan said.

"Yeah, me, too," Adrian said. "We can't just stick our heads in the sand and wait for things to get better."

At that point, everyone started talking at once: Quinn tried to convince everyone to leave Julia to the agency; Brian, London, and I reasoned that Kenny and Adrian should go home, taking some of Quinn's offered bodyguards with them; and Adrian and Kent argued that they wanted to see this thing through, too.

In the end, Kenny agreed to head home the next morning, bodyguard in tow, and explain the situation to Adrian's wife, Summer. They didn't seem to trust Jimmy to explain things in a way that wouldn't scare the hell out of her. Despite the fact that his new bride and love of his life was waiting for him in L.A., Adrian insisted on staying behind with London and Brian. Thankfully Orlando had been the last date on that leg of their tour, and the boys had a little downtime ahead of them.

Dylan and I had lives, of a sort, back in Texas, but we agreed that dealing with Julia and Vanessa trumped a crappy job and crappier college courses. I had a feeling I'd be repeating all my classes come fall, but right now I had more important things to deal with. Dylan didn't seem worried about work, even though she was due back there the next day. I was pretty sure she was hoping to get fired so she wouldn't have to deal with her incompetent boss anymore.

"What exactly do you think you're going to be able to do?" Quinn asked us.

We all looked at each other. I'm not sure any of us had any idea what to do about Julia, but there was one thing I did know for certain.

"I'm not letting London, Brian, or Dylan out of my sight just yet," I said. "That shouldn't be so hard to understand."

"And you can't keep them in sight in another state because..?"

I sighed, and Ashe clapped Quinn on the shoulder. "Leave it be," he suggested.

Quinn frowned and turned away to fiddle with his laptop. Let him be unhappy with us; we weren't going to go play ostrich while some covert agency squared off—or failed to square off—against the evil ex-girlfriend.
Chapter Seventeen

With the stay-or-leave question settled, everyone began to go their separate ways. The other boys in the band headed off for showers and sleep, Brian with Dylan on his arm. Quinn and Ashe wandered off to do whatever it is that secret agents do, Ashe pausing at the door to fling a simple "behave yourself" back at London. If he meant what I assumed he meant by that comment, then London ignored the admonition. The second the door closed, London turned my face toward his and kissed me.

Our first kiss—had that really only been the night before?—had been tentative, uncertain. When he'd kissed me earlier in the night, it had been all heat and lust, demanding and damned near brutal. This kiss was neither uncertain nor demanding, but tender and passionate and confident. Maybe it wasn't one of the five perfect kisses in the history of the world, but it was definitely one of the five perfect kisses in the history of Elizabeth Morgan.

That kiss led to another and then another, as they usually do. The desire I thought I'd buried earlier proved to have been lying in wait for just such an occasion, and for a moment or two I let it sweep me away—away from worry and fear and not knowing what would happen next. Only when I felt London's shields waver, felt the beginnings of the dreaded echo effect, did I force myself to draw away, just a little, resting my forehead against his.

London sighed and traced his fingertips up and down my bare arm. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

I leaned back a little and cupped his face in my hands. When he raised his eyes to meet mine, I smiled at him. "What exactly are you saying 'sorry' for?"

He opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again and thought for a moment. "For being complicated."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. Smiling, I wrapped my arms around him in an awkward hug. "I'm the Queen of Complicated, sweetheart," I said. "If you're smart, you'll turn tail and run now."

London grinned at me. "I've never been all that bright," he said and kissed me again.

I giggled into the kiss, and London's grin widened into a full-on smile. It made kissing awkward, sure, but the silly sweetness was a helluva lot easier to deal with in that moment than stronger, more serious feelings. And it just plain felt good.

The moment didn't last long. London cupped the back of my neck and pulled me in closer, kissed me a little harder. I pulled away again, and I guess something of what I was feeling must have shown on my face because London apologized again.

"I really hate having to be 'the responsible one,'" I said, my words coming out harsher than I'd intended. "It'd be nice if you could not make things hard on me."

"I'm—"

"Don't fucking say you're sorry again." I pulled away with an almost-growl of frustration and got to my feet.

"I am, though," London said, catching hold of my hand. "I'm not trying to be difficult. I just want—"

"To be normal?" I guessed.

London nodded and inclined his head, his damp hair falling forward like a curtain, hiding his expression.

"Normal is kind of boring." I reached out to stroke his hair, then changed my mind and cupped his chin instead, urging him to look up at me. "The idea of losing myself in you again, in your emotions—or, I guess, our emotions—well, I'm not gonna lie. That scares the hell out of me. Even though it felt really damned good. Maybe because it felt really damned good."

"I get that," he said. "It kind of worries me that it doesn't scare me. That it's what I want right now. What I feel like I need."

"It makes sense that you want to lose yourself. Hell, it's not just you, London. I want that, too. Being able to let go and forget every damned thing for a while sounds awesome." I sighed. "And the more I babble about it the less I know why I'm resisting."

London smiled up at me. "Good to know."

I smiled back and tugged on London's hand as I took a step back toward the bed. He surprised me by letting go, though he timed it so that I was steady on my feet and didn't stumble.

"There are other considerations."

I frowned, uncertain what he meant. Then I remembered the mad scramble for a condom the night before. Brian's suitcase wasn't here to save us tonight, and once the cumulative effects of London's empathy hit us full force, we wouldn't stop at making out. Maybe that's what he was talking about.

"There's a reason Ashe told me to behave," London added. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him.

"What am I missing here?" I asked, perching on the foot of the bed.

"Um."

"London?"

He looked uncomfortable. Embarrassed even.

"It's like Ashe knew what would happen after the show. Like he knew I'd throw myself at you." He shook his head. "He warned me that I should think of you as off-limits until I get better at shielding. Well, until I learn to shield properly. Using magic to throw up shields is only making things worse." He paused. "I'm talking in circles."

"Yeah, kind of."

"The stronger my abilities get, and the stronger my feelings for you get, the stronger the...whatever you want to call it. The cumulative effect, I guess. The stronger that gets. If we give into this, it could be bad."

"How bad?"

London sat back, leaning his head against the wall, and rubbed his face. "I think Ashe's exact words were, 'Imagine giving Viagra to a 16-year-old.'"

"Yikes." I took a moment to process the thought. "So we'd...what? Screw until it hurt?"

"More like until one of us passed out."

"And that concept didn't bother you enough to think with your brain instead of your dick?"

London sat back, frowning. "Are you referring to right after the show, or just now?"

"Just now," I answered. I started to pull my legs up to sit cross-legged, remembered I was wearing a skirt, and settled for crossing my legs at the ankle, all ladylike and proper. "I know that you just kind of broke earlier."

"Yeah, I did. And just now, I didn't push things anywhere near the point of no return. I wouldn't do that." London moved to sit beside me on the bed and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, pulling me against his side. "I care about you, Elizabeth. I'm not gonna take a chance on hurting you. Especially not after what happened last night."

I snuggled closer to him. "Now it's my turn to apologize. I know how freaked out you've been about that. And I know that you wouldn't risk going down that path again."

London hugged me closer and kissed the top of my head. "Let's call it even and go to bed."

I agreed and we took turns washing up and brushing teeth and, in my case, changing into pajamas. I crawled into bed beside London and he shut off the bedside lamp. In the darkness, I curled against his side, my head on his bare chest. Somehow, I resisted the invitation offered by all that smooth, naked skin, concentrating on the beat of London's heart and the soft sighs of his breathing. Halfway through my silent bedtime prayers, I felt myself begin to doze. I raced through the rest of my prayers before my brain could wander off course again and then drifted off to sleep in London's arms.

Chapter Eighteen

I woke screaming, drenched in sweat. My heart hammered out its rhythm double-time as I huddled against the headboard, afraid of the dark but just as afraid of drawing attention to myself by flipping on the lights. A soft, wounded sound reminded me that I wasn't alone and brought me a step or two closer to reality. The nightmare had been vivid, intense, but it had been just that—a nightmare. Nothing in it could hurt me now. I knew that on some level, but the knowledge wasn't quite enough to chase away the fear.

The details were already fuzzy, but I knew the dream had something to do with Julia. I thought, but wasn't sure, that she'd hurt London, tortured him. She hadn't been using her mystical cattle-prod on him, but something more sinister. A knife maybe? Or, no—a dagger or an athame.

Someone pounded on the door, and I jumped, a whimper escaping before I could clamp down on it. I could hear a muffled voice through the door, but couldn't place it. Everything seems alien and strange in the dark even at the best of times, which this certainly was not. I pulled the blankets up around me, clinging to the childish believe that the thick duvet would somehow hide or protect me from the things that go bump in the night.

The door opened, and I whimpered again, curling up into the smallest ball possible.

"Forgot I had a damn key," a familiar voice said as someone flipped on the lights.

I blinked against the sudden brightness, my terror easing as I recognized Ashe. Adrian came into the room behind him, disheveled from sleep. Ashe moved to kneel on one side of the bed, and only then did I realize that London was not beside me. Glancing around, I saw no sign of him; I could only assume that he lay out of my line-of-sight, near where Ashe was now kneeling.

Adrian stumbled across the room, rubbing his eyes. He glanced toward Ashe—or London—and then over at me, hesitating for only a moment before crossing to the bed. With slow, exaggerated movements like you'd use with a wounded animal, he crawled onto the mattress to sit beside me. He stroked my arm, my hair, anything within reach, with those same slow, calm movements, and began to sing to me, his voice hushed and soothing.

By the time that Ashe had London calm and on his feet, Adrian had worked his own brand of magic, bringing me the rest of the way out of the nightmare and back into myself. London crawled onto the bed to sit with his back against the headboard and reached for me. I shied away from his touch, and tried not to feel guilty about it. The gesture probably made London feel worse than he already must, but I couldn't help it. It was pure instinct.

I forced instinct to take a backseat to logic and moved to curl against London's side. Ashe still had a hand on London's shoulder, so it would be safe, I knew. London's arm tightened around my shoulders, and he turned to face me. His eyes were wide and tear bright. I couldn't read the emotion in them, and for once I wished there were no shields to keep his feelings from me.

"What happened?" Adrian asked, dragging one of the straight-backed chairs up beside the bed.

"Nightmare," I muttered.

"That was no nightmare, little bit," Ashe said. "It was a psychic attack. I felt it, too."

"Julia," I said.

"Maybe. Maybe not. There's nothing in her dossier that makes me think she's capable of something like this, and the agency is pretty damn thorough."

"You think it was someone else?" Adrian asked.

"I don't know what I think," Ashe admitted. "I'll talk it over with Quinn. Later. Right now, we all need to try to get a little more sleep."

"I don't think I'll be sleeping again tonight," I said.

"You need rest," Ashe insisted. "We all do, if we're going to have enough wits about us to stay safe."

I couldn't argue with the logic. Still, I knew sleep would be hard to find now.

"Do you think it'll happen again?" London wanted to know.

"I just don't know, Stretch."

"What can we do?"

"Not much," Ashe replied. "Whoever attacked you was damn strong—strong enough that I felt the projection through my shields. I've been in this business a long time. Shielding is second nature to me. I can even do it in my sleep. You're a long way from that still."

"What about that whole third party thing?" I asked.

"I can't do that in my sleep," Ashe said, "And I can't stay up all night keeping watch."

"And we wouldn't ask you to," London said.

I nodded in agreement. "Of course not. So, we just hope we don't keep getting ambushed while we sleep?"

"That's about the size of it."

Sighing, I looked over at Adrian. "I so wish I were you right now. That whole immune to magic thing would be pretty awesome."

Adrian half-smiled. "Kind of. Not sure that nightmares would have been worse than waking up to the sound of you screaming. You scared the hell out of me."

"You could hear me through the walls?" I asked, embarrassed.

"I'm surprised you didn't wake the whole floor," Ashe chimed in.

"Awesome," I said, turning to hide my flushed face against London's shoulder. He cuddled me closer and stroked my hair, and I felt a little better.

Everyone was silent for a moment or two, and then London said, "I don't want you to have to go through that again."

"I don't want either of us to have to go through it again," I replied.

"If I understand this whole distance projection thing right, then only the target or another empath is actually affected by it. Am I right?"

"Most of the time, yes," Ashe confirmed.

"So Elizabeth's nightmares were because I was bleeding magic and not because of the attack itself."

Ashe nodded. "Yeah, but she's not gonna want to hear what you have to say on the subject."

"Hello. I'm right here," I said. I hate when people talk about me like I'm not even in the room.

"Sorry, Elizabeth," Ashe said with a slight inclination of his head. "But I figured I oughta warn your boy here to keep his trap shut before he pisses you off again."

"Probably a good plan," I said. I stretched up to kiss London on the temple and said, "I'm not going anywhere, so forget it."

London laughed. The unexpected sound startled all of us, London included, but it also chased away a few more of the emotional shadows.

"Now who's making things difficult?"

"Queen of Complicated," I said. "I warned you."

The laughter faded from London's eyes, but a slight smile stayed on his lips. "Please don't fight me on this, Em," he said, brushing my hair back from my face.

The concern in his eyes melted something in me, and I couldn't fight him. Dammit. "Fine."

London winced. "It's never good when a woman says, 'fine'."

"It really is fine. I promise."

"You sure?" I glared up at him, and he smiled back. "Okay, okay, you're sure." He looked up at Adrian, who answered London's unasked question.

"Elizabeth can have my room. I'll stay in here with you, just in case."

"I don't want her alone," London argued.

Winking at me, Ashe put on his best leering lecher voice and said, "I'll be glad to keep her company."

"I bet you would," London replied. He sounded a little jealous, a little possessive, and he held me just a bit tighter. "Adrian, do you mind staying with Em tonight?"

"It'll be torture," Adrian teased, "but I think I can handle it."

We all said our goodnights, London and I kissed, and then I followed Adrian back to his room, wishing I had taken the time to put on something more substantial than boxer shorts and a camisole. Even the t-shirt and shorts ensemble I'd been favoring the past few days would have been a little better. There was something disturbing about crawling into bed half-naked with a similarly half-clothed married man, even though there was no attraction between us.

I lay curled with my back to him, trying to relax enough to sleep. I failed. There were too many thoughts whirling through my mind.

After what seemed like ages but couldn't have been more than half an hour, Adrian sat up with a sigh. I guess sleep wasn't working for him either. The bed shifted as he climbed out of it, and I could hear him pad, catlike, across the room. I heard some sounds I couldn't put a name to, and then music pushed away the silence. These boys and their guitars. Not that I minded.

Unlike the other guys, Adrian chose to sing along with the songs he played, his voice low and dreamlike in the dim closeness of the room. Just like earlier, his singing soothed and comforted me, and the next thing I knew, I woke to daylight filling the room. I'd slept, and slept well, with no more nightmares. I wondered if London had fared as well.

Leaving Adrian to whatever dreams were making him smile in his sleep, I crept out of the room, willing to take a chance on waking London. I needed to see him.

I wasn't expecting anyone to be up and about, but Kent stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall with his luggage piled around him. He looked up as the door closed behind me, his eyebrows shooting up.

"Not a word," I said.

He mimicked zipping his lips shut and gave me a little smile. I answered it with a scowl and turned toward London's room, only to turn around again at the sound of a door opening. Brian stepped into the hallway, flashing me a broad smile. I scowled at him, too, and he moved to hug me.

"What are you doing awake this early?" he asked me.

"Sneaking out of Adrian's room," Kenny answered.

"You and London fighting again?"

I shook my head. "It's a long story."

"You can fill me in later," Brian said, shouldering one of Kenny's bags. "We've got to get going."

"You're not going alone are you?" I asked.

"Quinn's meeting us in the lobby," Kenny explained. "He's bringing a friend, someone who's agreed to play bodyguard for me. I was planning to go back with the rest of our crew, but everyone thinks I'm too much of a target. They wanted Jimmy to go with me, but he left earlier. He had the sudden urge to get the hell out of the country."

"Somehow, I'm not surprised." I hugged Brian again. "Be careful. Both of you"

As they headed for the elevator, I knocked on London's door. Ashe let me in, looking haggard. London sat with his back against the headboard, arms around his knees and head down. He forced his head up to look at me as I stepped into the room, and my heart did a backflip. He looked like ninety miles of bad road.

"Was there another attack?"

London nodded, the simple gesture seeming to take a great deal of effort.

"This one was worse than the first," Ashe told me. "I don't know what London got out of it, but even the second-hand effects were bad. It's been a long night."

I made a beeline for the bed, climbing up to kneel beside London and wrap my arms around him. He sagged against me, exhausted, and I stroked his tangled hair.

"You should try to rest," I murmured, but he shook his head.

"Good luck," Ashe said. "I've been trying to talk him down for the past hour. I'd say he's stubborn as a mule, but that'd be an insult to the mule."

A knock on the door saved me from having to conjure up a response. It was room service with a cart filled to bursting with an array of breakfast comfort foods: French toast, pancakes, eggs Benedict, bagels with cream cheese. The second the scent hit me, I was ravenous.

Between us, Ashe and I convinced London to eat. He seemed to think that if he shifted the tiniest bit of his concentration away from his shields that they would fall, making him vulnerable to another attack. I wasn't sure what that bitch had done to him—and I was more and more certain that she was involved somehow—but it had him rattled good and proper.

When he'd finished his breakfast and was sipping on a second mug of coffee, Ashe informed us that we would be checking out of the hotel in a few hours.

"Quinn's got connections everywhere," he said, "and he's found us a place to stay. When he gets back from his airport run, we'll head 'em up and move 'em out."

"That still gives you time for a cat nap," I told London.

With all the heavy food in his system, he couldn't fight the exhaustion any longer. I coaxed him into lying down with me, and he went right to sleep. I figured that Ashe had chosen the breakfast menu with that very result in mind. It backfired a bit, I noticed, making Ashe a little groggy, too. He fought back by staying busy and on the move, heading back to his own room to round things up for the move to our new digs.

I lay beside London for a while, just listening to his soft snores. Even in sleep he didn't relax, twitching at every sound. After a while, I crept from the bed, changed into street clothes, and began packing up our room. I started with my own things, then moved on to London's. It felt kind of weird picking up after a guy who wasn't technically my boyfriend.

Did I want that? Even taking the magic stuff out of the equation, dating London Dahlbeck would be complicated, to say the least. I'd seen what Dylan had endured these last few months. Did I want a relationship that consisted of phone calls, text messages, and a few hours of face-time whenever our schedules aligned?

God help me, I did. I wanted it. I wanted him. The thought scared me almost as much as his creepy ex-girlfriend.

I pushed my doubts aside for now; there would be plenty of time for them later—if we didn't get ourselves killed. I pushed that thought aside, too, and fished out my laptop, needing something to occupy my mind.

I immersed myself in housekeeping—catching up on email, firing off a note to let Alex know that things were okay here, paying a few bills. I was so caught up in what I was doing that when the door opened, I jumped like I'd been poked with a cattle prod. I pressed a hand over my racing heart and looked up, ready to tear into the culprit.

"We've got to move," Ashe said before I could speak. "It's not safe here."

Without a single question, I shut the lid on my computer and shoved it into my backpack, tugged on my shoes, and grabbed my bags. Meanwhile, Ashe shook London awake. He didn't even give London a chance to get dressed before he was urging us both out the door. We met the others in the hallway, and our herd moved toward the elevator. I noticed that Brian was ash-pale under his tan.

While we waited what seemed like years for the elevator, London tugged on a t-shirt and then asked the question no one else had voiced. "What happened?"

Brian shook his head, pulling Dylan closer and wrapping both arms around her. A look passed between him and Quinn, who said, "Not here."

The elevator chimed its arrival at our floor, propelling the guys into protector mode. Brian turned so that he stood between Dylan and the elevator, and London took a step forward, half-shielding me in the same way. Ashe and Quinn pushed past all of us, Ashe with one hand extended, palm out, while Quinn's hand slid to the holster that had been hidden at the small of his back. The doors began to glide open, and Quinn drew the gun, bringing it down to rest against his thigh.

The elevator was empty.

I breathed a sigh of relief, but the men stayed tense, caught in the adrenaline high of the fight-or-flight response. Or maybe, in this case, fight-and-flight.

The seven of us and our luggage filled the elevator like crayons crammed helter-skelter back into the box. We girls were pushed to the back. Ashe and Quinn took point near the doors, which was fine with me. Special agents for a secret agency had to be better in a fight than Dylan or me.

We reached the lobby level, and Ashe and Quinn both tensed, ready to deal with any threats. The doors slid open and someone small and fast darted toward the elevator, stopping short at the sight of us. A split-second later I heard a shrill, deafening shriek, and I realized that the person I couldn't see through the forest of tall men was a little girl. She turned tail and ran, screaming at the top of her lungs that "the man in the elevator has a gun!"

With his free hand, Quinn pulled out a badge, the other hand still gripping the gun low and tight against his leg. A woman in a skirt suit who I figured had to be the hotel manager came over to talk to Quinn. I could tell that she knew him, knew that it was okay for him to be carrying around a handgun. She flirted with him for a few seconds under the guise of investigating the situation, and then waved us on and went to talk to the startled guests.

We made our way out of the hotel to Quinn's and Brian's cars. Brian was still shaken, so Ashe took his keys. Brian let him, climbing into the back and sitting as near to Dylan as seatbelts would allow. London and I piled into the back of Quinn's car, neither of us wanting to let the other out of our sight, and Adrian took the front passenger seat.

The four of us stayed silent until Quinn turned onto I-4 and headed north, his eyes going often to the rearview mirror.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Winter Park. The agency has a safe house on the lake up there."

I nodded. "I know where that is. I used to live up in Winter Park. Nice place."

"And on the outskirts of Orlando," Quinn added. "It'll put some distance between us and the bad guys. Should make it a little harder for them to screw with us." He glanced into the rearview mirror and met my eyes for a second. "Ashe told me what happened last night."

"What I want to know," London said, "is what happened today."

"Yeah, about that. I don't really know what happened." Before I could ask, Quinn continued, "At least not all of it."

"What do you know?" Adrian asked.

Quinn took a deep breath. "I know I fucked up. When they left us alone during the show last night and then hit with a psychic attack instead of a face-to-face one, it threw me off. I wasn't careful enough, and I could have gotten myself and Brian both killed."

London sat up straighter and reached for my hand. "What...?" he began, but Quinn cut him off.

"We dropped Kent and Miranda—his bodyguard—off at the airport with no sign of trouble. We waited around to be sure they made it through security with no problems, and then we headed back here. Not a hint of anything wrong. And then we're walking from my car to the hotel, talking about the playoffs next week, and all hell broke loose." He executed a tricky lane change to get away from a batshit-crazy driver in the world's ugliest sports car. "Fucking moron," he mumbled.

"Quinn," I said, my voice a warning.

"I'm getting there," he promised. "One second we're walking along bullshitting, the next this scary Amazonian redhead steps out of the shadows and grabs Brian. I'm a few steps ahead, right? So it took me a minute to realize something had happened. God, I'm such an idiot. Anyway, I don't know what she said, but she was whispering in his ear, and then he just...crumpled."

"The Taser thing?"

"No. He wasn't hurt. Not physically. I don't know what the hell she did, but it wasn't that. Anyway, I couldn't shoot her—I was afraid I'd hit Brian—so I used magic. Combat magic is not my strong suit, but I stunned her enough she let go of Brian. I drew on her, but I still didn't have a clear shot. She ran, and I had a choice between going after her and making sure Brian was okay. Since I didn't know what she'd done to him, I didn't know if leaving him alone was a good idea. I let her get away."

We were all quiet for a heartbeat. Adrian was the first to break the silence.

"You did what seemed right at the time. No one here is going to blame you for choosing Brian's well-being over catching Julia."

"It's a choice I shouldn't have had to make. I should have been more careful. I should have been prepared." He sighed. "Maybe I've been out of the field too long."

"You don't chase bad guys?" I asked.

"I'm the brains behind the operations, these days. I plan and coordinate. Other agents follow my orders, and I try to avoid getting them killed."

"So Brian's not hurt?" London asked.

"No. Not hurt. He's shaken. Bad. Bad enough he couldn't tell me what happened. But not hurt."

I leaned against London, offering what comfort I could. He wrapped his arm around me as best he could within the confines of the car. I felt tendrils of emotion seeping out from around his shields: worry, guilt, and grief. I hoped he couldn't feel the flare of jealousy that his grief sparked in me. I couldn't help it. I didn't want him mourning his ex—the death of his dreams or what-the-hell-ever—while he was holding me. I understood it, but I didn't have to like it.

Chapter Nineteen

No one had much to say during the rest of the drive to the safe house. Adrian turned on the radio, and I pointed him toward one of my favorite Orlando stations. One of DPS's songs was on the radio, so Adrian hit the scan button. I gave him a couple of other good options, and he settled on a station that was playing classic rock. Tom Petty, Steve Miller, Steely Dan, the Eagles, and Queen kept us company for the rest of the trip, saving us from uncomfortable silence.

I was lost in thought, wondering what had happened with Julia and if Brian really was okay, when the car stopped and Quinn shut off the engine. I glanced up to watch Ashe park the rental car beside us and then turned to look at the house. My jaw dropped in utter awe.

When Quinn had said "safe house," I'd imagined an aging frame house, surrounded by similar houses, set apart just enough to provide a safety buffer for the neighbors. I couldn't have been more wrong. The refuge that Quinn had found for us was a massive lake house, modern and pristine. If we had neighbors, they were well hidden behind the trees that lined the distant edges of the property.

Here, where we could literally see danger coming from half a mile away in any direction, we all began to relax. Brian seemed more himself, though still shaky, and the excitement of the morning had cleared London's head, for now at least.

After Quinn and Ashe made a quick sweep to ensure the place was secure, we all grabbed a bag or two and headed inside. The interior of the house was even more impressive than the exterior. Dylan and I dropped our stuff in the living room and wandered through the house, leaving the menfolk to deal with the rest of the luggage. With huge, open living spaces and four big bedrooms, I felt certain we could all co-exist there without too much cabin fever. All of the bedrooms were done up in neutral tones—this was a safe house after all, not a family home. Two of the bedrooms were set up with pairs of twin beds, the third had a queen bed, and the master bedroom had the biggest bed I'd ever seen—something bigger than a king bed.

"It's London-sized," Dylan said, drawing a hint of a smile from me. "Guess you guys get this room."

I shook my head. "It's marathon-sex sized. Totally meant for you and Brian."

She laughed and went to look out the huge windows while I turned and headed into the massive master bathroom.

"Speaking of sex," I called out, staring around the tiled room.

Dylan stepped into the doorway and breathed, "Wow."

"Yeah."

The over-sized shower with a rain showerhead and body jets was enough to put thoughts in a girl's head, but the ginormous garden tub—more than big enough for two—sent my imagination into overdrive. My whole body felt tingly and my heart sped up. Then I remembered that London was off-limits and sighed.

"Yeah, master suite is all yours," I said, and turned and walked away.

"Whoa, wait a minute." Dylan caught me by the arm. "What's up?"

I gave her the condensed version of Ashe's theory about London and magic and sex, and she hugged me.

"I'm sorry, hon."

I shrugged. "Sex isn't everything, right?" Dylan did her best Spock imitation—which isn't very good at all—and I said, "Just pretend, okay? I need the moral support."

She smiled and patted my shoulder. "Whatever gets you through the night."

Once we had gotten the luggage sorted to the appropriate rooms, Quinn gathered us all in the library—the kind of library you read about in books but never really see, with leather armchairs and shelves and shelves of books—and showed us the monitors for the house's state-of-the-art security camera system.

"There are motion-activated lights on the property as well, a double-perimeter of them," he explained. "No one can get close enough to disable the outer row of lights without activating the inner row. We'll take turns keeping an eye on the monitors, at least until our backup gets here."

Ashe agreed that it was a good idea, but added, "I think we can give Brian and London a pass on this one."

Brian shook his head. "No. I'm all right."

Ashe started to protest, but Quinn stepped in. "We'll give you last shift. Give you a chance to recover. You'll need it, especially since I'm about to push you to tell us what happened."

With a tired sigh, Brian dropped into one of the leather armchairs and leaned forward to sit with his forearms resting on his thighs. Dylan sank down to sit at his feet, and he lifted one hand to comb his fingers through her hair.

"Julia asked me to give London a message," he said.

London leaned back against the bookshelves, wrapping his arms around himself in a strait-jacket-like hug. "What message?"

"She said to remind you what would happen if you don't help her."

The color drained from London's face and he slid down the bookcase to sit huddled on the floor, the same way I'd found him huddled against the headboard earlier that morning.

Quinn looked from Brian to London and back again. "Did she tell you what she meant? What would happen?"

Brian shook his head and looked away. "She showed me."

"Oh, God," London croaked, his eyes wide. He staggered to his feet and across the room, dragged another of the armchairs close to Brian's, and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "It won't happen," he promised. "I won't let it."

I saw the muscles in Brian's jaw clench, watched him stroke Dylan's cheek, and I knew that she was the bait. I went to join them, sinking down to sit where I could hug London's leg and still hold Dylan's hand.

Ashe moved to stand over us. "Don't go getting any ideas, Stretch," he said. "We don't need you deciding to play the martyr."

"Not going to happen," London said, but I wasn't sure anyone believed him. In fact, I think we all knew that if it came down to a choice between him and Dylan, he'd do whatever it took to protect her, not only for Brian's sake but because he believed it was the right thing to do.

Quinn didn't give us time to dwell on the situation. Instead, he gave us a crash course on surveillance and broke us up into teams of two: him and Ashe, followed by Adrian and Dylan, then Brian and me. I figured he set up the teams that way to minimize the potential for distraction. Quinn and Ashe settled down in front the monitors, and the rest of us wandered into the massive living room.

London sprawled on one of the sofas, and Adrian plopped down on one end of the other couch. Brian dug out his guitar and took a seat on the edge of the coffee table. Somehow I got the feeling that this wasn't an uncommon scene for these guys. Dylan changed things up a little though by sitting down at Brian's feet and laying her head against his knee. Brian paused his playing to run a hand through her hair a few times then he went back to his music. I watched everyone for a long moment before curling up on the other end of Adrian's sofa.

A few minutes later, when Brian paused again, Adrian asked what song he had been playing.

"Just something I've had in my head," Brian said.

Adrian looked thoughtful for a moment, and then wandered off without another word. He came right back with his guitar. In the next instant, the world outside of the two of them and their music disappeared.

With a little shake of her head, Dylan got up, tapped me on the knee, and gestured toward the far door. I got up and followed her into the kitchen.

"I'm freakin' starving," she said. "No breakfast, no coffee, and that goddamn little whore fucking with Brian. Could a day get off to a better start?"

I shook my head and joined her in poking around in the fridge and cabinets to see what we could find. Thankfully, the fridge was empty except for bottled water and sodas. Nothing nasty lurking in there, half-forgotten. We found a lot of in-date nonperishables in the cabinets and pantry, including some high end, gourmet kinds of things, but no coffee. On a hunch, I checked the freezer, and sure enough—coffee. Gourmet stuff again.

I left the coffee-brewing to Dylan and took stock of the kitchenwares. I also found the stash of oversized coffee mugs. When the coffee was done, I poured a cup for Ashe, and as an afterthought I poured another for Quinn. If any of the other guys wanted coffee, they could get it themselves.

Dylan sipped her mug and sighed a happy sigh. She looked from her cup of gourmet coffee to the cold Pop-Tart in her other hand and then at me, and we both laughed. Shaking my head, I headed to the library with my offering, which both Ashe and Quinn accepted with many thanks.

Back in the living room, Adrian and Brian were still working on their song. I thought it was starting to sound pretty good. Dylan had reclaimed her seat at Brian's feet, despite the overabundance of squishy chairs and sofas in the room. I didn't blame her. In fact, I understood completely.

I bypassed all the other seating and headed for the sofa where London lay. He looked exhausted and miserable, and I considered urging him to go find a bed. I figured it would be futile though, and went back to plan A.

"Sit up a minute," I told him.

He looked up at me, his face blank, like he could hear me but not understand what I was saying. Then he closed his eyes, shook his head like he was trying to clear it, and sat up long enough for me park my butt on the sofa. He lay back down and turned over, his head in my lap and his back to the room.

"You should try to sleep," I said, combing my fingers through his hair. "Quinn and Ashe seem to think you're safe for now."

"From outside influence," London countered, "but not from what's in my own head."

"Um. Think happy thoughts?"

I could see the corner of London's mouth turn up in a smile. "Not that easy."

"Maybe you just need a distraction. Something else to focus on."

He turned to lay on his back, so he could look up at me. "I think we determined last night that distraction is out."

It took me a second to realize what he was talking about, but when I did I rolled my eyes. "Sex is not the only distraction. Honest. Besides, you'd so fall asleep just when it was getting interesting, and I'd develop a complex. We'd end up hating each other and have to go on the Dr. Phil Show. Or Jerry Springer."

London laughed, and I smiled back at him. We were quiet for a while, listening to the boys work on their music. All the while, I tried to think of something to help disengage London's brain. If music wasn't doing it, what would?

Sometime later it hit me. I touched London's cheek to get his attention, and he turned away from whatever he'd been staring at to look at me.

"Meet me in the bedroom," I said. When he opened his mouth to speak, I laid a finger across his lips. "No questions. Just go."

London looked up at me for a minute, then dragged himself to his feet and wandered off toward the bedroom I'd chosen for us. I followed, detouring by the kitchen on my way.

When I stepped into the bedroom, London was sitting on the foot of the bed, looking a little lost. I half-hugged him as I walked past, and told him, "Lose the shirt." I dug my iPod out of my backpack to plug it into the docking station on the bedside table. The bottle of almond oil I'd liberated from the kitchen went on the table, too. I queued up a playlist of soft, soothing music, and then turned my attention back to London. He was lying face down on the bed, having figured out my plan.

Using just enough of the oil to keep from chafing his skin, I started working the kinks out of London's back. I didn't have the first clue about massage techniques or any of that jazz, but I knew how to give a good, basic backrub. So I did.

I started by using my knuckles and a good bit of leverage to loosen up the knotted muscles, and followed up with long, slow strokes meant to soothe. I found myself moving in time to the mellow music and just went with it. Soon enough, I felt London relax under my hands. I continued the backrub for a few more minutes, just to make sure he was all the way under. When I stopped and he didn't protest or open his eyes, I figured he was out.

I stepped into the adjoining bathroom to wash the remnants of oil from my hands, and when I went back into the bedroom, London hadn't moved an inch. Definitely out. I hesitated, uncertain. I wanted to crawl into bed beside him, but I didn't want to risk waking him. I made myself turn away and head back to the living room.

"Maybe something like this," Adrian said as I stepped into the room. He played a series of notes on his guitar, and Brian nodded and played them back on his own guitar.

Dylan glanced up from where she still sat at Brian's feet, now holding a heavy, hardbound book in her hands.

"Anything good?" I asked her as I plopped down on the sofa near her.

She held the book up so I could read the cover. "Found it in the library."

"I can't believe you're reading _War and Peace_. Again. What is it with you and Tolstoy?"

She just shrugged and went back to her book.

With everyone else occupied, I was at a loss, so much so that I found myself looking forward to sentry duty. I decided I would switch with Dylan and take the next shift—and dare anyone to bitch about it. I knew she wouldn't mind since it would mean she could, possibly, drag Brian off for some alone time. My grand plan was foiled, however, by the arrival of reinforcements.

Quinn left Ashe alone on duty long enough to introduce his agent friends to the rest of us.

"Agents James Carmichael, Ron Peterson, and Martine Rochon," Quinn said, indicating each of the new arrivals in turn. He introduced us in the same brief, no-frills fashion, ending with, "And where's London?"

"Sleeping."

"Good. Could I get you guys to help them carry in the provisions they brought us?"

"We got it covered," Carmichael said, surprising me with a deep-South drawl. With his spiky bleach-blond hair and designer sunglasses, I would have figured the twenty-something agent as anything but a southern boy.

The rest of us protested Carmichael's assurance, of course, and my friends and I brought in bags and bags of groceries, leaving the agents to juggle suitcases and weapons and things I couldn't identify. Adrian gave up his room—the second twin-bed room—to the agents, and they dumped their gear there, with the exception of their holstered sidearms. Peterson, who I couldn't help noticing was good-looking in spite of his perpetual frown—went to take over sentry duty, and the others came into the kitchen to help us put things away.

"I hope somebody knows how to cook," Carmichael said. "Martine can," he said, nodding toward the woman whose perfect café au lait skin and long legs I envied, "but she won't. And Peterson is worse than useless."

"In more ways than one," Martine added, her voice deep, rich, and sultry with more than a hint of what I thought might be a Haitian accent.

"Yeah, well, he's here to work, and that he can do," Carmichael said, handing a jar of spaghetti sauce to Adrian who found a place for it on a shelf.

"So what about you?" I asked, rearranging the food in the small freezer to make more room. "You not a cook either?"

Carmichael smiled, the expression spreading across his face in the same slow-motion way that his words tumbled out of his mouth. "Well, I can use a microwave, a coffee maker, and a toaster. That's about the sum total of my culinary skills."

The bizarre combination of the backwoods Georgia drawl and the phrase "culinary skills" had me and Dylan both giggling. Even Martine cracked a smile, the simple upturn of lips and crinkling of eyes transforming her model-perfect face into something truly beautiful.

"We shouldn't have sent Kenny home," Adrian chimed in.

"Apparently his cooking skills are legendary," Dylan added.

"Shame he ain't here, then," Carmichael said.

"My skills might not be legendary," I told him, "but I think I can manage something."

We kept up the idle chitchat while we unpacked, stored, rearranged, and rearranged again. Dylan was unloading the last bag when her unexpected peal of laughter brought our conversation to a screeching halt. She hefted the jar in her hand and tossed it to Brian.

"I think that's for you," she said with a grin. "It was probably meant as a joke, but I seem to remember you actually liking the stuff."

Brian grinned, too. "Yeah, I do," he said, setting the jar on top of the fridge.

I looked up at it, and laughed, too.

"Vegemite?" Carmichael asked. "I thought that stuff was just an urban legend."

A brief conversation about vegemite and the band Men at Work ensued, followed by a vegemite tasting party. To my utter surprise, the stuff tasted really good, though not everyone agreed with me on that. Afterwards, we all went our separate ways again. Brian and Dylan shut themselves up in their bedroom, Martine joined the other agents in the library, and Adrian and Carmichael found some sports network on the living room TV. I considered my options for about two seconds before snagging a book from the library and then heading for the bedroom to curl up next to London and lose myself for a while.

Chapter Twenty

Ten people in a house the size of the one in Winter Park wasn't such a bad deal. There were enough beds to go around—if you counted Adrian's sofa—and plenty of room to scatter. But anytime people are confined to the indoors, cabin fever will set in sooner or later. When you're rubbing elbows with more than half a dozen other folks, some of whom you don't even know, and you're just sitting around twiddling your thumbs and waiting for the other shoe to drop...well cabin fever sets in right away. We all struggled to find ways to fill the empty hours, with varying levels of success.

I emailed my teachers, and to my surprise they all responded with variations on the theme of "you can get caught up after you're done dealing with your family emergency." My favorite professor even asked if there was anything she could do to help. Hers was the one class I really enjoyed and missed. I was also in charge of the kitchen, more or less, and spent a lot of time on culinary experiments, a few of which were truly disastrous. The rest of my time was spent with books, on my computer, or curled up with London to sleep or watch TV.

Dylan made obligatory phone calls to her sister, her parents, and her employer. When she'd called in sick on Monday, her boss had been out. She'd explained to the office manager that she was stuck in Florida for the foreseeable future as part of an ongoing investigation. The manager had been shocked and awed, and she had promised to deal with Dylan's boss.

True to form, Dylan spent a lot of time with her nose glued to one book or another. She also spent a lot of time locked in the master bedroom with Brian, a fact that seemed to set every other male in the house on edge. Apparently, if they couldn't get laid, they felt Brian shouldn't either. Men can be so weird sometimes.

Adrian spent a lot of time on the phone, too, with his wife and with Kent. Kenny and the rest of the DPS entourage—except Jimmy, who really had left the country—had made it home safe and sound. All of them, along with anyone else Ashe and Quinn considered high-risk, were under surveillance by agents that Quinn trusted, and there had been no sign of trouble.

Adrian and Brian also spent a lot of time playing and writing music, sometimes with London but more often without. London was busy working with Ashe and the other agents, learning more about his abilities and how to control them. The guys also watched a lot of sports and action movies, but, well, they're guys. Dylan, Martine, and I learned to either block out the worst of what was on the TV or make ourselves scarce for the duration.

Quinn and his team hadn't made any headway in their search for Julia, but the planning resulted in an epic battle between him and Ashe that shook up the quiet calm of the safe house for a few minutes. Quinn pointed out that, since he was retired, Ashe couldn't be part of the official investigation into, search for, or apprehension of a rogue agent, and Ashe did not take the news well. The shouting match that followed was a little terrifying and came to an abrupt end when Ashe slammed out of the house. Carmichael followed him, and sometime later the two of them returned. Ashe had calmed down, but Quinn had wisely gotten the hell out of dodge just in case, saying he was going to meet with the field agents who were looking for Julia.

Other than that brief shouting match, all was serene. We were safe, our lives were as secure as they could get under the circumstances, we had a nice, comfy house to stay in—and we were all going stir crazy. The agents dealt better with the cabin fever and the close quarters, but even they were showing the strain after two whole days of doing nothing. Peterson, especially, seemed to be spoiling for a fight.

Sunday night bled into Monday and then into Tuesday. I made lunch, and the men—minus Carmichael who was on duty and Brian who was locked in his room with Dylan—took theirs to the living room where they argued about some sporting event or other in that good-natured way that men seem to live for. I decided to join Carmichael and Martine for lunch in the library because it beat hell out of listening to some game I couldn't care less about.

After lunch, Martine surprised me by breaking out a giant cosmetic case that looked like a tackle box and setting to work on her nails. I'd never seen so many cosmetics in such a tiny space, at least not outside of a store. There were implements in there whose purpose I could only guess at. I found myself watching in bemusement as Martine, who always managed to look both elegant and austere, stripped off her fashionable, sensible shoes and socks and began to paint her toenails with a metallic ice blue polish.

"Holy crap," Carmichael said. "You really are a girl."

Martine glared at him, but he just smiled back, his eyes fixed on the monitors before him. She looked away from him to find me watching her and raised her brows.

"Nice color," I said.

She smiled, then looked contemplative. She set aside the ice blue lacquer and turned to the kit, lifting each bottle of polish in turn and setting them on the desk. The array of colors was impressive. After a moment she chose a deep, true, glittering red and showed it to me.

"That one suits you best, I think," she said.

After she'd painted my nails, I held my hands out to admire them. She was right; the color did suit me.

"There you are," I heard London say from behind me, drawing me out of the contemplation of my brightly painted nails. "I wondered where you'd disappeared to."

I turned halfway in my chair to look back at him as he neared the desk where Martine and I were playing beauty salon.

"Nice," he said, taking my hand and turning it so the polish caught the light. He dragged up another chair and leaned in to kiss my temple.

"Game over?" I asked, hopeful.

"Not even close. But it's kind of a crap game." He launched into the reasons why the game wasn't a good one, and I just gave him a bland smile. "Aaaaand you really don't care, do you?"

"Nope," I answered with a big smile. "Not even a little bit."

He smiled back and laid his head on my shoulder. He couldn't have been comfortable in a physical sense, but I knew that he drew emotional comfort from all sorts of physical affection. I nuzzled his hair a little and planted an awkward kiss on the top of his head.

Carmichael snorted and said, "Get a room."

London sat up, the beginnings of a frown between his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. I put my arm around his shoulders, careful of my nails, and leaned my head against his shoulder. He sighed and returned my top-of-the-head kiss. He leaned forward in his chair, and I retreated to mine to see him reaching for the one of the polish bottles that hadn't made it out of Martine's kit.

"You mind?" he asked.

She waved a hand over the box in a "be my guest" gesture, and London and I looked through the rest of her arsenal of nail enamel. When we reached the end, London pulled one of the vials out and held it up to the light.

"It's darker than it looks," Martine said. "Almost, but not quite black. And the matte finish is an interesting effect."

London looked at her for a moment, his back to me so that I couldn't see his expression. Martine responded with another "be my guest" wave, and London uncapped the purple polish.

"You have got to be kidding me," I said.

London turned to look at me, and I could see him mentally gearing up to defend himself. I shook my head and took the bottle from him, again being careful of my nails. I dragged my chair around to face his, propped one foot up on his thigh, and guided his hand up to rest on my bent knee.

"You can't paint your own nails when your girlfriend is around to do it for you. It's like, a rule or something."

I halfway expected London to argue with my use of the term "girlfriend," but he just flashed a wide smile at me and watched me paint his nails. Martine was right; the matte finish was interesting. I thought the purple lacquer looked pretty good on London.

Beside us, Martine and Carmichael traded places. She took a turn at the monitors while he found something recreational to do. Recreation for him turned out to be cleaning his gun. I paused in my artistic endeavor to watch him for a minute.

"What the heck is that?" I asked him. "It looks like something you'd see in sci-fi movie."

"Yeah, it does," London agreed.

Carmichael grinned a good-ol-boy grin that looked out of place with his club-kid image. "Optical illusion," he said. "It's a Glock 35, not much different from what a lot of cops and feds carry. The add-ons are what makes it look odd."

I leaned in for a closer look and nodded. "I can see that, now. From a distance, all I could tell is it looked a lot more high-tech and a lot more menacing than my .38 Special."

"You have a gun?" London asked.

"Of course she does," Carmichael replied. "Southern girl and all that." He winked at me, and I rolled my eyes.

"My Aunt Jean bought it for me as a housewarming present when I moved into my first apartment in Houston. Taught me to use it, too. She was kind of the father-figure for Alex and me, growing up."

"Your daddy not around?" Carmichael asked.

"He died in the line of duty when Alex and I were really little."

"The line of duty?" London asked.

"He a cop?" Carmichael wanted to know.

I shook my head. "He was a fireman. He died saving two little girls."

"He died a hero then," Carmichael said.

"That doesn't mean much to an eight-year-old girl who misses her daddy or a six-year-old boy who doesn't understand what 'death' is." I shook my head. "Don't get me wrong, I get it now, for sure. I'm damned proud of my dad. But it was hard as hell at the time."

"Of course it was," Martine said. "I was far older than eight when I lost my father, and still it was hard."

"Yeah. I think it was even harder on me when Mom died," I added, tears pricking at my eyes. "We'd gotten to that point where we were friends instead of just mom and kid, you know? And then she was just...gone."

London reached for me, but I waved him away and swiped at my tears. "I'm okay," I said. I turned my attention back to painting London's nails and tried to clear my mind. I felt the tiniest trickle of comfort spill into me, and I looked up to meet London's eyes. He offered me a tentative smile, and I rolled my eyes at him. "I said I was okay. But thanks."

After I'd finished up my paint job and the enamel had set, London and I went back to the living room. I felt wrung out after my unexpected trip down memory lane, and I would have liked to curl up in bed. However, I knew from an unpleasant experience the day before that without music or some other sound for buffer, I could hear Dylan and Brian through the wall. Not how I wanted to spend my afternoon, especially in my current state of mind. I opted instead for snuggling with London on the sofa while he joined in on the male sports ritual.

The game ended just a few minutes later, and I thought my luck might be changing for the better. The guys tussled over the remote, argued over what to watch next, and settled on a comedy farce that I actually liked. Peterson went to spell Martine so she could rest for a while, and I wondered if the security shifts made waiting around more or less tedious. I snuggled closer to London and wished for something to break up the monotony a bit.

They say be careful what you wish for, and they're right. I got my wish, but not in anything like the way I was daydreaming about.

One second London was wrapped up with me on the sofa, his fingertips tracing an idle path up and down my arm. The next, he jerked away and slid to the floor to curl up in the fetal position with his arms over his head, hands tearing at his own hair.

Ashe and Adrian both leapt up from the sofa and hurried to London's side. Quinn jumped up as well, vaulting over the back of the sofa to take off down the hallway at a dead run. I tried to fight my way through the onslaught of London's terror but all I could do was sit like a statue, watching Ashe and Adrian trying to help him.

Adrian talked to London in a soothing voice, letting him know he wasn't alone, and held his hands to keep him from hurting himself. Ashe laid a hand on London, and I guessed that he was projecting calm or maybe throwing up a shield. Unlike the other times, it didn't seem to be doing a damn bit of good. Instead, London jerked, trying to pull away.

What seemed like an eternity later, Martine rushed into the room with Quinn right behind her. She slid to the floor like a skateboarder landing after a failed stunt; it had to have hurt, but rug burn seemed to be the furthest thing from her mind. She elbowed her way between Ashe and Adrian, cradling London's head between her hands, her palms against his temples. He stilled, but the terror continued to roll off of him.

Another eternity passed before London's fear eased enough for me to shake off the second-hand effects. I moved to kneel beside Adrian, who still held London's hands. I leaned against Adrian and covered his and London's joined hands with my own smaller ones. From there, I could see London's face. His eyes were wide and wild like those of a cornered animal. I tried to hold back tears, but that's something I've never been too good at. I lost that battle almost before it started.

Glancing up, I noticed first the strain in Ashe's face—just a faint hint of stress around his tired eyes. Then I looked at Martine and saw that she, like me, was crying. Beads of sweat stood out on her brow, and the muscles in her arms trembled.

We all jumped when she suddenly snarled, "Fuck you, you two-bit whore!" I don't know whether the unexpected shout echoing in the silence or the string of swear words from the normally refined Martine shocked us more.

Ashe let go of London and laid a hand on Martine's arm, and she stopped trembling. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, though, as if she didn't have the strength to do otherwise. No more than another minute passed before Martine's body sagged and her hands slipped away from London's face. Quinn was there to keep her from pitching forward, easing her down to lie on the floor with her head in his lap. London shook off mine and Adrian's hands and heaved himself up into a sitting position. He swiped at his sweaty brow with the back of one arm, the other pulling me close to his side.

"What just happened?" Adrian asked, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"This wasn't like the other attacks," Ashe said.

"But we were kind of expecting it," Quinn added, stroking Martine's hair in a way that made me wonder if they were more than friends, or if maybe he wanted them to be. "It's why I called Martine in on this job, actually."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"After what Julia did to Brian, we had an idea she might try a sending on London," Ashe said. "The other attacks were emotional projections, but this time she made him see things."

"That's not exactly true," London said, the words coming out stilted, hesitant. "Before, there were images. They just...they weren't..." He broke off, trying to find the right words. Or maybe any words. He was still shaken.

"Take your time, Stretch," Ashe said.

The barest hint of a smile touched the corners of London's mouth and was gone again. "The images were vague, before. Like a dream. A nightmare. This time was different."

"More vivid?" Ashe guessed.

London raised and lowered his head in a slow-motion nod. "Yeah. Not like a dream. More like..." He trailed off, looking for words again.

"Like a movie?" Adrian asked.

"No. Not really," London replied, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "More like it was happening while I watched." He raised his head to glance around the room. "But Martine, she stopped it."

"That's why I brought her in," Quinn said. He looked down at Martine and said, "I didn't know it would wipe you out like this."

Martine made a sound of derision deep in her throat and struggled to sit up. "I am not wiped out," she protested, her Haitian accent stronger than usual. "But I admit I was not prepared for the depth of this Julia's depravity."

London took a deep breath and let it out. His voice sounded almost normal again when he said, "I need to know what you saw."

It was Quinn who protested. "I don't think that's a good idea. You're already in shock."

"I need to know," London said, cutting him off. "All of this—it's about me. Julia wanted to send me a message, and I need to know what that message said."

"She wasn't sending you a message," Martine said, leaning forward to look up into London's eyes. "She was trying to break you. Had you seen what I saw...I don't want to know what would have happened. Hearing it second hand will be bad enough, but I agree that you should know." She pointed at me and then to Adrian. "You two don't need to hear it." I started to protest, but she cut me off. "Just go," she urged, her voice soft and earnest.

"Please, Em," London murmured in my ear.

Ashe nodded. "You two should go. We'll tell you what we can, but right now you need to clear out."

As much as I hated being sent out of the room so the Super Friends could have a pow-wow, I knew that arguing would only delay the inevitable. I hugged London as best I could while sitting next to him, turned his face toward me to press a quick kiss to his lips, and then followed Adrian out of the living room.

By some unspoken agreement, we wandered down the hallway toward the bedrooms. Dylan stepped out into the hall as we passed her door.

"We heard yelling," she said.

I turned to face Dylan, and past her I could see Brian tugging a t-shirt over his sweaty, tangled hair. No need to ask why it had taken them so long to investigate the shouting.

"It was Martine," Adrian told her. "There was another attack."

"On Martine?"

"On London," I said. "Martine kind of intercepted it."

"They said it was a vision," Adrian added, "like the one—"

"Like the one Julia threw at me," Brian said, cutting off the explanation. "Shit."

He pushed past all of us, headed for the living room. Adrian followed close on his heels. I could hear him telling Brian that we'd been kicked out of the room, but Brian wasn't listening.

"Tell me what's going on," Dylan demanded.

I sighed and gestured for her to follow me. I led her to my room and crawled up onto the bed to sit with my back against the headboard. Dylan perched sidesaddle on the edge of the bed, facing me. Once we were settled, I told her what I knew about the attack.

"That fucking crazy bitch," Dylan snarled.

"She's a dead crazy bitch," I said, startled by the strength and conviction in my own voice. "She just doesn't know it yet. I hope I get the chance to do it myself."

We were both quiet for a little while, stewing.

"Do you really think you could do it?" Dylan asked.

"Kill Julia?"

"Yeah."

I thought about it for a minute. "If it were kill-or-be-killed, or kill-or-watch-someone-I-love-get-killed, then hell yeah. But just to put her out of our misery..." I sighed. "No. I don't think so."

"Me, either. Even after everything," Dylan admitted. "So, how screwed up is it that I really hope she puts me in one of those kill-or-be-killed situations so I can pop a cap in her ass?"

I smirked and shook my head. "Pretty screwed up, Dylan. But I feel the same damned way."

Chapter Twenty-One

Dylan and I both realized at the same time that Brian and Adrian hadn't returned from the front room.

"So the little women have to sit in a corner and be quiet?" Dylan asked, her eyes flashing. "I don't fucking think so."

"Yeah," I agreed. "So not happening."

We made our way down the hall together, both of us spoiling for a fight. I walked into the living room a second or two ahead of Dylan, ready to tear into the first person who questioned my being there.

Two steps into the room, I froze in my tracks. Dylan and I weren't the only ones spoiling for a fight. The air crackled with tension in a very literal sense. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

"Why would you even suggest that?" London demanded, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He glared at Quinn, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

"Because it could be useful," Quinn replied.

"Useful? How the fuck could it be useful?"

"How could what be useful?" Dylan asked.

London whirled to face us, his eyes blazing. I couldn't see magical auras like Adrian, but I swear I could feel the power radiating off of him. For the first time, he kind of scared me.

Brian laid a hand on London's arm. "Quinn wants to know if London can do this sending thing now."

I saw my own disbelief mirrored in Dylan's face as she turned toward Quinn. "You want to know if he can make people see nightmares? What the fuck? How is that going to be helpful? Are you trying to give the crazy bitch another reason to want him on her side? Cause that's what's going to happen if he starts throwing visions at her."

"I never suggested he try a sending on Julia," Quinn said. "But we don't have anyone here who can gauge London's power without seeing what he can do and how fast he can pick it up. I just think it would be good to know these things since it could make a big difference in a fight."

Ashe tried to talk, but London interrupted, his voice low and hard. It was scary and sexy all at the same time. "If you don't want me to try the sending on Julia, then which one of my friends did you want me to torture?"

Quinn just stood there looking like a landed fish, at a total loss. I guess he hadn't thought things through.

My mouth opened of its own volition, and I promptly shoved my foot in it. "Who says it has to be torture?" I heard myself ask. "Why couldn't you send happy thoughts? Rainbows and kittens or something?"

London turned a little more, so he was facing me full-on. He didn't even seem to notice when Brian's hand tightened on his arm in a gesture of warning. "Whose side are you on?"

"Don't you snap at me, London Dahlbeck," I snapped right back. "All I did was ask a question."

London shook off Brian's hand—I guess he had noticed it after all—and lowered his head, every muscle in his body still tense with rage. I thought he was trying to get himself under control. Boy was I wrong.

As temper tantrums go, London's was a unique one. It didn't involve yelling, or hitting anyone, or breaking things. He struck out with his magic instead, and I never even saw the strike coming.

Between one breath and the next, I found myself sprawled, naked, on satin sheets. London, also naked, stood at the foot of the bed staring down at me with a predatory gleam in his eyes. He stalked forward like a jungle cat on the prowl to crawl onto the bed between my legs, his hands gliding over my bare skin as he moved forward. He paused with his hands on my spread thighs to look me in the eye. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips and my breath caught in my throat. His eyes never leaving mine, he slowly lowered his head...

...and then I was back in the living room of the safe house, head spinning and breath coming in short gasps. I think I would have been on the floor if Adrian and Brian hadn't held me up. I leaned harder against Brian, and he wrapped his arm around me. I looked up at him and was startled by what I saw there: he was looking at London—his longtime friend and almost brother—like he wanted to punch him in the throat.

"I'm okay, Brian," I managed to say. I hugged him a little tighter and forced myself to face London.

The rage had faded from London's face, replaced by a strange combination of hunger and guilt. I pushed away from Brian and held a hand out toward London.

"Truce?"

London swallowed hard, nodded, and then stepped forward, ignoring my proffered hand in favor of wrapping me in his arms. I hugged him back, and I felt some of his tension ease.

"You're a total bastard, you know that, right?"

London ran a hand over my hair. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Did you seriously have to stop right when things were getting interesting?"

That surprised a laugh out of him. "Blame Martine. Or Ashe, actually, since it was his idea. They stopped me."

I turned in his arms to look at everyone else. "You all suck," I said.

Ashe's face broke into a smile, and he shook his head. "Trouble," he said.

Everyone started asked questions then: asking if I was okay (Brian and Adrian), asking for details of the sending (Quinn), asking London what the hell he had been thinking (Brian, again). I ignored them all, waving away the questions with an impatient flap of my hand. Instead of answering them, I pulled London over to the sofa to cuddle. It wasn't what I wanted, but it would do for now. At the moment, I had questions of my own.

"Okay, so." I let everyone simmer down and settle into their own seats. "Long story short: I'm fine, and London proved he can handle that sending thing just fine—at least from across the room. Farther than that and who knows? That good enough for you Quinn?"

Quinn had the good grace to look ashamed of the furor he'd caused. "More than."

"Good. Now maybe you boys covered this while I was exiled from the room, but there's something that's bugging me. London picked this thing up on the fly because he's a special flavor of...what's the word you guys use? Practictioner?" Quinn nodded, and I continued. "What I want to know is how did Julia learn to do it? Last night, Ashe said he didn't think Julia had the ability to launch a psychic attack, but we know she's behind this—or at least behind the attack on Brian."

"That's another thing," Dylan added. "Why attack Brian in person if she could do this sending thing from a distance? Why take that kind of risk?"

Ashe and Quinn exchanged a look, and Quinn said, "There are a couple of theories on that."

"Hypotheses," Martine corrected with a roll of her eyes. I smiled at her, and she smiled back. "And you only need one hypothesis if it's the correct one. In this case, that would be this: Julia wanted us to know that she has the ability to project visions as well as physical sensations and she wanted us to know that she was watching us very closely."

"It's also possible," Quinn added, "that she doesn't have enough metaphysical juice for long-distance sendings. She may have chosen a face-to-face attack to throw up a red herring so we wouldn't know who was behind the long-distance attacks."

"Even then the ability to cast visions isn't something that should be in her repertoire," Martine said. "And I do not believe in your red herring 'theory'. She is behind it. I'm certain of it."

"How can you—"

Martine cut off whatever Quinn had been in the process of asking. "London, did it feel like Julia?"

"What..." London trailed off, turning contemplative. After a minute or two he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah it did. And the attacks from before felt the same."

"There," Martine said. "This Julia is responsible for the attacks."

"But how?" I asked.

"Now that is a good question," Ashe said. "And one we've been tossing around for a couple days now. One possibility is that it was a latent ability. That happens sometimes, a practitioner has a skill lying dormant that they don't realize is there until they're a little older and wiser—or until they end up between a rock and a hard place."

"It isn't likely, in this case," Martine added.

"No, it isn't," Quinn agreed. "It's pretty common for mainstream practitioners, but it's extremely rare in agents because we undergo extensive testing."

"Could it be she's like London?" Dylan asked. "A mimic or whatever? And she somehow managed to hide it?"

"Again, not likely," Quinn said. "If that's the case, then her mentor would have known. Once he—or she—started training Julia, the mimic thing would have been obvious."

I turned to look at London. Our eyes met and something just clicked inside my head. I saw in his eyes that he'd been similarly struck, but I was still surprised when we both responded with the same thought. I voiced that thought as a single word while London opted for complete sentences, but we were on the same track.

"What if Julia's file is wrong?" he asked at the same time I said, "Misinformation."

Ashe's brow furrowed. "Wrong as in someone made a mistake and didn't put down that she's got the ability to send visions?"

I shook my head. "Wrong as in someone is covering up the extent of her abilities."

"Not possible," Quinn said.

Ashe snorted. "Sure it is. How many people have clearance to edit files in that computer system?"

"Not many," Quinn said. "It's limited to a handful of very senior...oh holy Mary, Mother of God."

Martine's eyes widened, and Ashe looked grim.

"If one of those guys is in on this, we're all fucked," Quinn said.

The room fell into an abrupt and utter silence as that pronouncement rattled around in all of our heads. I shook it off, though. I wasn't giving up without a fight, and I wouldn't let anyone else, either.

"Well, then, I guess we better hope its option C," I said, moving to lounge against one arm of the sofa with my feet in London's lap. "What is option C?"

Ashe leaned forward to rest his arms on his thighs. "Option C isn't much better, princess. Hell, it might even be worse."

"Maybe worse," Quinn agreed. "Less predictable, sure. But not as scary as squaring off against someone who's been an agent since before I hit puberty."

"And what is option C?" London asked again.

"Magic," Carmichael said from the doorway. "Real magic. Spellcasting. Rituals. What we like to call thaumaturgy."

Chapter Twenty-Two

Carmichael began to explain thaumaturgy and the difference between it and the natural abilities that we were all now familiar with. He, Ashe, Quinn, and Martine were all but talking over each other as they gave an impromptu lecture on spellcasting, and I'm sure it was all very important and endlessly fascinating, but I didn't hear much of it. About two seconds into Carmichael's spiel, London licked his lips just the same way he had in the vision he'd fed me earlier. Needless to say, my mind started filling in the missing pieces, imagining what happened next in that little scenario. I didn't have enough mental capacity left over to process what the magical folk were yammering about.

Sometime later, London turned to look at me and caught me staring. At least something of what I was thinking—daydreaming—must have shown on my face, because he gave me a smug little smile. And licked his lips again, the bastard.

I'd had enough. Rolling off of the sofa and onto my feet, I stormed out of the room, going just a hair off-course to shove Quinn out of my way. It wasn't his fault. None of this was the fault of anyone here, but I didn't much care. All I cared about right now was venting a little—and letting London know I wasn't exactly pleased with him.

I guess he got the memo, because he walked into the bedroom about two seconds after I threw myself on the bed in a huff.

"Elizabeth," he began, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Shut up," I said. "Just shut up." I sat up and looked at him for a few seconds, then climbed off the bed. "And stay here."

I stepped back into the hallway, running almost at once into the very person I'd been going to look for. Dylan asked if I was okay, and I nodded and pointed toward her bedroom. I followed her inside and shut the door.

"Condoms," I snapped. "Now. And don't even think about throwing the magic shit in my face. And if you're running low, it's your own damn fault for screwing 24-7."

Dylan tried, and failed, to raise an eyebrow at me. They both sort of wiggled around, and I felt my foul mood slip a little. "Sure you don't need Midol instead?"

"Shut your facehole," I said, trying not to smile.

She grinned and opened a drawer in her nightstand, coming up with a giant box of condoms. I didn't even know you could buy them in bulk, but at least they weren't flavored or anything. There are some things you don't want to know about your best friend.

"Quinn's idea of a joke," she explained. "Try not to use them all at once."

"Yeah, well. Just in case Ashe is right about the magical-Viagra thing, be ready to come hose us down in a couple of hours?"

Dylan laughed and hugged me, and then I headed back into the bedroom. I closed and locked the door behind me and then turned to toss the massive box to London, who was still sitting exactly where I'd left him, as instructed. His eyes widened.

"Not a word about magic," I said. "Not one damned word."

"But—"

"Dylan has instructions to check on us if we don't surface in two hours," I assured him. "It'll be fine."

London nodded and put the box on the night stand. He looked as uncertain as a virgin on prom night. I thought it made him even more adorable.

Smiling, I lay down on the bed and told him, "Come here," holding my arm out in an invitation to cuddle. He snuggled against me, and for a long time we just lay in one another's arms, indulging in the same sort of mostly innocent kisses and caresses we'd allowed ourselves the past couple of days.

As the minutes passed, I began to realize that unless I wanted to still be cuddling when our two hours was up I was going to have to make the first move. I went for subtle, sliding my hand under his shirt and up the smooth plane of his body to run my fingers through the sparse hair on his chest.

London's breath caught, and he covered my hand with his. "I don't think I can do this," he whispered.

I propped up on one elbow so I could look at him. "Performance anxiety?"

The question surprised a shaky laugh out of London, but his expression turned serious again as he said, "I don't want to take a chance on hurting you."

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and counted to ten. I wasn't sure yet that I could keep my temper, so I counted to ten again before speaking. "I'm not fragile, London. And we know what we're getting into. I need this. We both do." He opened his mouth to speak—probably to tell me again what a bad idea this was—and I laid a finger across his lips. "You know I'm right."

It was London's turn to stay silent for a long moment. "Maybe," he began, then paused. "I've learned more control. Over my powers. Maybe I can keep my shields up. I don't know."

"No."

"No? No, I can't keep my shields up?"

"No, you're not going to even try." Again he started to speak, and again I stopped him with a touch. "You need to be able to let them down, to let go. I know you do."

"I can't—" I cut off his protest, pressing my mouth to his in a lingering kiss.

"Let go," I murmured against his lips and kissed him again. And again.

Time passed, though whether it was a minute or ten, I couldn't say with any certainty. London pulled me down to lie against his chest, and I felt his heart pounding out its rhythm double-time. I wondered if anxiety or anticipation had his pulse racing.

And then London let his shields down, and I had my answer.

"It's going to be okay," I told him. I held London, kissed him, and murmured soothing words to him until finally, finally I felt his fear begin to recede.

As we moved from cuddling and kissing into serious foreplay, desire rose up to supplant the fear. The psychic reverb tried to kick in, but I was ready for it. I figured if I focused on another of the dozen emotions whirling through me then maybe I could minimize the Viagra-effect. I knew it was possible to get swept up in those other emotions as well, but they seemed less dangerous.

Love and affection might have been less dangerous to us under the circumstances, but they're more powerful than lust—and a helluva lot scarier. Even as I felt my own fear spike, I could sense the echo of it in London's emotions. And then, I was alone in my head.

I tried to push up so that I could see London's face, but my arms were shaky. I managed to sit up somehow, and I brushed the hair back from his sweaty brow. He flinched at my touch.

"Please don't. Don't touch me," he stammered, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

"I'm sorry," I whispered back as tears blinded me.

"Don't," London said, his voice a little stronger. "God, don't cry." He struggled to sit up and wrapped his arms around me. I felt tendrils of guilt and regret slip out around his shields and remembered what he'd once said about having a hard time keeping me out. I remembered too that touch made his empathy stronger.

"Shit," I said, sliding across the bed to put some distance between us. I wiped at my eyes. "I'm okay."

"Elizabeth."

"I know you need some space. It's okay."

London drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, his face hidden in the circle of his arms. He looked defeated. Broken.

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have pushed."

London shook his head without lifting it. "This is so not your fault." He looked up at me then. "Why?"

"Why what?" I looked away, watching my hand smooth wrinkles out of the sheet.

"Why me?" he asked, his voice hushed. "Why are you okay with...with all of this?"

I made myself meet his eyes. "Honestly?" I gave him a wry little smile. "I have no idea." I offered him my hand. He took it without hesitation and gave a little tug. I accepted the invitation and moved to sit beside him. He surprised me by lying back and pulling me down with him to cuddle.

"You've gotten a lot better at getting your shields back up."

"Yup. Now if I could just keep them up."

"You'll get there," I assured him, snuggling closer so that I could press a kiss to his temple. "You'll get there."

Chapter Twenty-Three

A knock on the bedroom door jerked me out of a light doze, and I snuggled closer to London.

"Go away!" I called. "We're naked!"

"Bullshit," was Ashe's response from the other side of the door. "Open up."

"That's what he said," I mumbled as a dragged myself out of bed. I opened the door, expecting to be met with anger or at least consternation, but Ashe didn't seem to be upset with me.

"Come with me a minute," he said. "No, not you, Stretch. You stay put."

I stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind me. "Is this where you bless me out for my stupid stunt?"

"It's where I should bless London out for _his_ stupid stunt. But that can wait," he answered as he led me down the hall to the bedroom he shared with Quinn.

Peterson was sitting on one bed, his hands cupped at cross-angles, like a kid with a captive lightning bug. His eyes were closed, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. I ignored him and turned toward Ashe, but he moved past me to stand beside Peterson.

The other agent opened his eyes and looked up at Ashe. "Seems fine, but there's only one way to know for sure."

"Thanks, Ronnie," Ashe said, reaching out to accept what looked like a necklace.

I moved in for a closer look, recognizing the triangle shaped pendant at once for what it was. "Why do you have a Harry Potter necklace?"

Peterson gave me a small, tired smile—the first I'd seen from him since he arrived at the safe house. "Quinn's idea of a joke."

"I'm sensing a theme," I said, more or less to myself.

"Quinn likes his little jokes," Peterson added.

"I'm guessing the vegemite was him, too?"

Peterson smiled at me again, a real smile this time, and I figured his secret agent dossier probably had "killer smile" listed as one of his superpowers. "Yeah, that was him. That and this here," he said, indicating the pendant, "are pretty subtle for him."

"I get the vegemite thing, but the necklace?"

"I wanted something I could make into an amulet, and he brought me this," Ashe explained.

"An amulet? Like an actual magical...thing?"

Ashe shook his head and gave me a knowing look. "I could have sworn you were in the room during our thaumaturgy lesson earlier."

"Only physically," I said. "I was a little distracted."

"I just bet you were."

"What did London do to you anyway?" Peterson asked.

"That's none of your concern," Ashe interrupted.

"No, it's okay. I'll tell you...on one condition." Peterson hiked an eyebrow—man I hate people who can do that—and waited. "You have to give him hell about it." I was rewarded with another of Peterson's smiles and found myself smiling back at him. "Sex," I said.

Both of Peterson's eyebrows shot up this time. "Like...porn?"

"Only if the porn industry could make the stuff first person and interactive."

A look passed between Ashe and Peterson, and I didn't much care for it. "What?" I asked, my tone more harsh than I had intended.

"I'm out of this conversation," Peterson said, pushing himself up from the bed. "I'm gonna go find Quinn."

Once he was gone, Ashe tried to distract me by handing me the necklace. "This is yours, princess."

I took the necklace, resisting the urge to thank Ashe since I still had no idea what I would be thanking him for. Instead I asked, "What just happened?"

Ashe took a deep breath and let it out. "The way you described that sending London did, it indicates that his magic might be even stronger than we suspected."

"Oh," I said, not knowing what else to say.

"Which means it's a good thing I finally got off my arrogant ass and got some help with that amulet."

I held the necklace up. "What is it?"

Ashe leaned a hip against the dresser. "If one of us practitioners knows how to do it, we can put a little bit of our magic into an item—like that one. It only works with some types of magic, so—for instance—Martine couldn't make an amulet that would ward off a sending."

"Okay." I looked at the necklace for a moment as my mind worked. "Your shields."

"Exactly," Ashe said with a smile. "I've been working on this since we got here. As close as you are to London—and as close as you tend to be in a physical sense—you end up catching most of the fallout when he loses control. And you're too damned stubborn to back off, so I figured I better find a way to protect you." He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "You should have had it today, when the psycho bitch attacked him. But I've never made one of these before—never needed to—and even though I wasn't making much headway, I wouldn't ask for help."

"But you got it done," I said, closing my hand around the necklace.

"After the attack today, I broke down and asked for help. Peterson told me what I was doing wrong, and after that it was so damn easy I felt like...well, like the world's biggest asshole, to tell the truth. Like I said, you should have had this before now."

"At least I'll have it if, or when, the next attack comes," I pointed out.

Ashe gave me one of his sideways grins. "I have a feeling you'll put it to use before then."

And then it hit me—the attack wasn't the only thing that had prodded Ashe into getting the amulet made, and protection wasn't the only thing it would give me. This tiny shard of cheap metal would put me a step closer to a normal relationship with London. Not that any relationship with him could be normal, but this would help.

On impulse, I hugged Ashe, and to my surprise he hugged me back.

"Thank you." I felt I should say something more, but words failed me. "Thank you," I said again.

"You're welcome, princess," Ashe replied as he stepped out of the hug. He took the amulet from me and fastened it around my neck. "There. It suits you."

I laughed, the gravity of the moment broken. "Guess I should go try it out."

Ashe smiled and shook his head. "Trouble for sure."

I followed him out of the bedroom and—to my surprise—down the hall to the room I shared with London. Ashe strode into our room without even a cursory knock, and I followed. He pushed the door closed with his foot as he turned to face London.

"Drop your shields."

London sat up with a sigh and leaned back against the headboard. He looked from Ashe to me and back again and then leaned back against the headboard. A few seconds later Ashe moved his head in an abbreviated nod and turned his attention to me.

"Anything?" he asked.

I concentrated for a moment just to be sure, and then shook my head. "Not a thing," I answered, surprised when it came out as a whisper.

"Well I'll be damned," Ashe said. "I might actually have gotten it right."

"Might?"

"Proximity counts, Elizabeth," Ashe said, nodding his head toward London.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to take the few steps between the door and the bed. Still nothing. I reached out and took London's hand, watching emotions I couldn't name flit across his face.

Emotions I couldn't name. Glory hallelujah.

I lifted my hand to stroke London's cheek, to smooth along his jawline. I had never wanted to kiss him as much as I did right then—maybe not even while I was under the effects of our combined emotions. I forced myself to look over my shoulder at Ashe.

"Nothing," I said.

Ashe flashed me a smile, and I beamed back at him.

"What's going on?" London asked.

I held up the little triangular pendant. "It's an amulet. A shield. Ashe made it for me."

London reached out to touch the necklace, a look of wonder on his face. His fingers brushed the metal, and he snatched them back.

"Everything okay?" Ashe asked.

"Yup," London replied, taking the amulet in his hand. "Just didn't know what to expect. It's fine now."

"Good."

"What to expect?" I asked.

London looked up at me and gave me a small smile. "I can feel the magic in it. It's a little weird." He touched my cheek and added, "Not bad, just weird. And I'm guessing it means no more second-hand torture?"

I didn't answer, instead I asked, "Can you still tell what I'm feeling?" I wasn't sure if he'd felt my worry or seen it on my face, and I needed to know.

"No. I'm back to having to guess."

"Good." I held his hand to my cheek.

"Thank you," London said to Ashe. "Thank you for looking after her."

"Yeah, well, Elizabeth doesn't seem to have a very strong sense of self-preservation. Someone's got to save her from herself."

I saw a mischievous grin spread across London's face and had only a split-second to wonder what he was about to say before he said it.

"That's very fatherly of you," he told Ashe.

Ashe made a sound of disgust. "I'm not that old," he said, opening the door and stepping out into the hall, "and I'm sure as hell not too old to beat your ass and take your woman."

"In your dreams," London replied.

"Sometimes, Stretch," Ashe said, as he pulled the door closed. "Sometimes".

Chapter Twenty-Four

After Ashe left, I scooted across the bed to fiddle with my iPod, setting it on my mellow playlist and making sure it was plugged into the docking station. When I turned around, I found London sprawled across the bed, one hand resting lightly on his now bare chest and the other flung wide in an invitation to cuddle. I accepted, and he held me close.

"This is amazing," he told me. "You just don't know."

"I can imagine." And I could. After days of not being able to let his guard down around me—or most anyone else—it had to be a refreshing change.

At first we simply lay there, snuggled up, content just to be together. But after a while, our casual touches became more measured, teasing. And then London surprised me by pushing me over onto my back, rolling with me to settle in the vee of my legs, propped up so he could look down into my face.

"Hi," he said, smiling.

I smiled back. "Hi, yourself."

He leaned in for a kiss, and I moved one hand to cradle his head, my fingers tangling in his hair. The kiss went on and on, and for once no wave of emotion rose up to threaten us. Or at least not an overwhelming wave of our combined emotions. My own tangled feelings were enough to deal with. I pushed away the negatives ones easily enough and lost myself in London's kisses.

Soon he broke the kiss, moving to nip at my earlobe and then to seek out the most sensitive points on my neck. A whimper escaped my throat, and my legs wrapped around his waist without running the idea by my brain first.

"Not fair," I told him.

"So I should stop then?"

I answered by tightening my grip on his hair and pressing his face back to my neck. He laughed, which I felt more than heard, and then went back to his exquisite torture. It didn't take long for me to become a writhing mess and only a little longer for me to come completely undone. Only then did he pull back, urging me to sit up enough that he could help me out of my t-shirt.

London eased me back to the mattress and lowered his head to rub his slightly stubbled cheek against the smooth, sensitive skin just above the line of my bra. He moved just a little to one side, and I carded my fingers through his hair again, holding him to me as he grazed my nipple with his teeth.

I expected to lose my bra then and for London, like most other guys I'd known, to spend the next eternity obsessing over my breasts. Instead, he trailed kisses down my sternum and belly. He paused to deal with the button and zipper on my shorts, pushing my hands away when I tried to help. Scooting backwards, he dragged off my shorts and dropped them on the floor. For a moment, he knelt at the foot of the bed, just looking at me. I could feel myself blushing and had to fight to keep from trying to cover various flaws with my hands. He'd seen me naked before, but this was different. Without the magical reverb, I was free to feel self-conscious and vulnerable.

In the next moment, I forgot about feeling awkward as London covered my body with his again, kissing me until I was dizzy with desire. He fumbled my bra hooks open, stripped the thing off of me, and tossed it over the side of the bed. A few minutes of licking and nipping, and he was scooting back down the bed, stripping off the last of my clothes as he went. He stood at the end of the bed, again just looking at me. This time I couldn't seem to stop myself; I found myself trying to hide behind my arms and hands.

"Don't," London murmured, and I forced my hands back to my sides. He beamed at me and rubbed my leg in a comforting gesture.

A moment later he withdrew his hand to unfasten his jeans, and as he stripped, I flashed back to the vision he'd sent me. When he looked up at me again, he had the same feral gleam in his eye that he'd had in the sending. I felt my breath catch in my throat as desire curled into a hot ball deep inside me. Just like in the vision, he stalked toward me like some great jungle cat, sliding his hands up my legs as he crawled onto the bed. And just like in the vision he licked his lips and lowered his head—but unlike with the vision, he didn't stop just when things were getting good. He followed through this time, driving me to grasp his hair in one hand and the sheets beneath me in the other. It didn't take much of his attention before the hand grasping the sheets curled into a fist that I jammed into my mouth to keep from screaming as he pushed me over the edge.

I lost track of the world around me for a long moment, coming back to awareness with London trying to coax my fist from between my teeth. I let him, and he kissed the marks I'd left on my knuckles before covering my mouth with his.

"Okay?" he asked.

I smirked up at him, feeling smug. "What do you think?"

He grinned down at me for a moment before kissing me again. Again he kindled my desire, and then fed the fires a little at a time. We kissed and touched and tasted, made a couple of lame jokes about the freakin' huge box o' condoms, and then my legs were around London's waist again and he was inside me at last.

We moved together like we'd been made for one another, without any of the awkwardness that sometimes rears its ugly head. London took control, and I was glad to let him. He brought me to the edge again and again before finally, finally pushing me over into shuddering, clawing, jaw-clenching ecstasy. London wasn't quite there, but I was content to bask in the afterglow and urge him toward his own happy ending.

Afterwards, we lay side-by-side, only our hands touching, until our blood and skin had cooled a little. London surprised me by curling against my side and pressing his face into the juncture of my neck and shoulder. I stroked his hair and nuzzled his face, pressing a kiss to his sweaty forehead. His lips moved against my neck, forming silent words. I had a feeling they were the sort of words that he wasn't ready to say aloud and I wasn't ready to hear. I hugged him closer and kissed his forehead again before mouthing two silent words of my own: "Me, too."
Chapter Twenty-Five

Over the next couple of days, London and I followed our best friends' example, stealing every moment we could to be alone together. The other guys didn't seem to mind, or at least they didn't bitch about me and London the way they had about Brian and Dylan. Then again, they'd never complained in front of Dylan, so maybe they were just giving London hell behind my back. I didn't know, and I didn't really care.

Quinn used his not inconsiderable resources to learn what he could about Julia. He managed to find out who had recruited her, an older agent who still worked as a recruiter. In spite of the fact that the man was still an active agent, Quinn didn't trust him enough to let him come to the safe house. He arranged a meeting and reported back to us.

"Grimes is one of the most respected recruiters in the agency," he told us over dinner. "Apparently there's no one better."

"I remember him," Ashe said. "Never knew him that well."

"I did," Carmichael chimed in. "He's the one who brought me on board. He's a good guy. One of the best."

Quinn smiled across the table at Carmichael. "That's what everyone says about him, and I believe it. Anyway, you could have knocked the guy over with a feather when I told him what Julia's been up to. And he confirmed that she'd definitely not a mimic. He's not sure how she's managing what she's managing—especially since, according to him, she's always been really bad at thaumaturgy."

"So that's two options down," I said. "That leaves us with what? She's just developed new skills at random?"

Ashe shook his head, but it was Quinn who responded. "I think that leaves us with option D."

"Which is?"

"I have no fucking clue."

Carmichael snorted. "Not real helpful there, boss," he noted. "If Grimes didn't know how she's pulling off sendings, I'm guessing he didn't know how she masked her magic."

"Actually, I felt really dumb when I brought that up. I answered the question myself not two seconds after I asked it."

Everyone looked at Quinn for a moment, waiting for enlightenment. I shifted in my seat, and felt the not-yet-familiar slide of metal against my chest.

"Amulet," I said, my eyes meeting Quinn's.

He gave me a smile. "Bingo."

"Her ring," London said, laying his fork aside and sitting back in his chair. "She had this ring she wore all the time. She said it was her mom's and that it reminded her that we shouldn't live our lives just for ourselves. That there was a bigger picture."

"That fits with what Grimes told me about her," Quinn said. "He couldn't believe that she'd gotten into anything that would involve hurting anyone. He said she was a big believer in the greater good."

"Yeah, well," Dylan said, "so were Hitler and Mussolini."

London pushed away from the table and stumbled out of the room, his face pale and drawn. I started to follow, but Ashe waved me down.

"Best let me handle this one, baby girl."

I nodded and slid back into my seat, my heart heavy. The hurt I felt for him was an almost physical weight in my chest. I pressed a hand to my ribs as if I could relieve the pressure there, even though it was all in my mind.

To my surprise, Carmichael reached out and took my other hand to give it a little squeeze.

"It's not really about her, darlin'," he said. "It's about him. Remember that."

I wasn't sure what he meant, but I nodded anyway.

For maybe ten minutes, I forced myself to sit there, aware of the ebb and flow of conversation around me, but not a part of it. When I couldn't take it anymore, I went to find London and Ashe. I found them in the bedroom, London with his back against the headboard and Ashe leaning against the wall. Their conversation met an abrupt end as I stepped into the room, but London, at least, didn't seem to mind the interruption. He patted the bed in invitation, and I went to curl up beside him. He wrapped an arm around me and kissed my hair.

"You okay?" I asked.

He considered a moment before answering. "Not great, but yeah, I'm okay."

Ashe watched us for a minute before pushing away from the wall. "You gonna remember what I told you?"

London nodded, his face solemn, and pulled me a little closer. "I will," he said. "And...thanks."

"Don't make me regret it, Stretch," he said, letting his eyes rove over me in a way that made me want to squirm and, to my utter mortification, did make me blush.

"I won't, I promise," London said. "Now fuck off."

Ashe laughed as he walked out, turning the lock on the door before he shut it behind him.

"Do I want to know what that was about?" I asked.

"Probably. Can't tell you though. Need to know, and all that."

"Oh, bullshit," I said, without any heat.

"How about I make it up to you?" he suggested, his tone leaving no question as to how he planned to follow through.

I rolled my eyes. "You're incorrigible." I turned his face toward mine and kissed him. "Lucky for me."
Chapter Twenty-Six

Frantic knocking woke us hours later.

"Em, open the door!" Dylan shouted.

"Just a minute," I yelled back, scrambling into my clothes.

"The shit just hit the fan," Dylan told me the second I had the door open.

"Here?" London asked.

Dylan shook her head. "The field team. They found Julia."

I darted down the hall toward the library, Dylan at my side and London right behind us. Once we were all assembled, Quinn addressed us.

"My field team has a positive ID on Julia," he said, as Carmichael and Peterson did something scary and kind of noisy with what seemed like an army's worth of weapons. "Ron, James, and I are going to meet with them to assess the situation—and hopefully bring this thing to an end."

Martine took a step toward him, her fists clenched. "And I'm to stay behind?"

"We need fighters, Martine. You have your strengths, but we both know combat magic isn't one of them."

"I'm better than you," she spat, her accent more pronounced than I'd ever heard it. "Better with a gun as well."

"I'm the head of the fucking operation!" Quinn snapped.

"Quinn's right," Ashe said, stepping in between the two of them. "And so's Martine. No, just shut up a minute, Robbie. You can do what you want. Like you said, it's your operation. But you need to think about what's really best for the operation and for your team."

Quinn deflated like the last balloon left over from a kid's birthday party. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them, he met Ashe's gaze. "You're right. With this whole sending thing, they'll probably need you, Martine."

She nodded and started strapping on gear.

"Someone has to stay behind, to keep an eye on things here," he added.

"Ashe will be here," Peterson pointed out.

"Like hell."

"You're a civilian, Ashe," Peterson said. "I know you and Quinn already had this argument."

"I was wrong about that, too," Quinn said, surprising everyone. "If anyone can get my people through this mess in one piece, it's Ashe. I want you to take Martine and Peterson and rendezvous with the team."

"You're not going?" Martine asked at the same that Carmichael said, "I'm staying behind?"

Quinn nodded. "I have two priorities here—neutralizing the threat and keeping the civilians safe. Ashe is better suited to the former. I'm taking lead on the latter. It makes the most sense. I hate it, but it makes the most sense."

"And why'm I staying here?" Carmichael asked. "They need all the help they can get."

Quinn rubbed his forehead between his eyes. "I need someone else here. Just in case."

Carmichael growled and turned away.

Peterson laid a hand on Carmichael's arm. "You go. I'll stay."

Carmichael stared at him.

"I just have a feeling I need to be here."

"Shit," Carmichael said, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. "I hate when you 'just have a feeling.'"

"Me, too," Peterson admitted.

Ashe, Martine, and Carmichael suited up, armed up, and headed out to meet with the away team. The rest of us stayed put, not even venturing away from the library. We all wanted to be together, and we all wanted to be close to Quinn so we'd be in the loop, so we all hung out in the library. And we waited.

Waiting is one of the most difficult things that a human being can endure. Anyone who has ever taken a major exam, sat in a hospital chapel while a loved one underwent surgery, or applied for a job can attest to that. There have even been songs written about that particular grueling experience. Waiting is never easy, but sitting around wondering when—or if—we would hear from Ashe and the field team was sheer hell.

Peterson parked himself in front of the monitors, gun in hand, to wait. Brian sprawled in one of the big leather chairs not far from him, and Adrian curled up in its opposite number near the bookcases behind me. Dylan, true to her nature, started looking for a book to pass the time with. London, Quinn, and I paced.

I had only made two circuits of the library when Peterson sat bolt upright in his chair.

"The perimeter lights just went out," he said.

Seconds later, the entire house went dark.

"Everyone move to the master bedroom," Quinn said. I felt his hand on my shoulder, turning me toward the door, and then the world exploded.

Everything happened at once. Glass shattered, the loud bark of precise gunfire rang out, and I felt something warm and wet splatter against my arm even before I heard Quinn's pained cry. In the next second, the wall behind me imploded in an avalanche of books, chunks of wood, pieces of drywall, and bits of brick. Something hit me in the back, and I went down, more stunned than hurt.

Moonlight streamed in through the gaping hole where the wall used to be, and I peered around as best I could without moving. Adrian and Dylan, who had been near the wall when it blew, lay sprawled on the ground, half buried in debris. Neither of them moved, and I sent up a silent prayer for them, that they—that we all—would make it through this night alive. From my position, I couldn't see any of the others, and I couldn't see the enemy.

But I could hear her, I realized. She was talking to London, who was pleading with her to leave Brian alone.

Taking a chance on my own safety, I turned my head toward the sound of their voices. Julia was kneeling over Brian, her hands on his face. From the way he was jerking and twitching, I had a feeling she was using her metaphysical cattle prod on him. I knew how much pain he had to be in, and I was scared for him.

London knelt nearby, yelling and pleading with Julia—and banging his hands against thin air. It took a moment for my brain to make sense of what I was seeing, but eventually it clicked. The psycho bitch had to have some sort of damned barrier up around her.

I lay my head against the cool, polished wood of the floor and tried to think. It was really damned hard to gather my thoughts when they kept bouncing from point to point: worrying about Brian, worrying about Adrian and Dylan, worrying about Quinn, wondering what was going on with Ashe and the others, wondering where Peterson had disappeared to, and most of all wondering how the hell we were going to take down the bitch while she was in her metaphysical panic room.

I didn't have a single clue how to go about taking out Julia or her shield wall, so I chose to concentrate on something I did know how to do. With slow, almost silent movements, I crawled across the two feet of space between Quinn and me, skimmed off my t-shirt, folded it, and pressed it against the wound in his shoulder that he'd been trying in vain to keep pressure on. I leaned on it hard, ignoring Quinn's stifled grunts and groans. It was while I was playing nurse that I spotted his gun.

He had to have dropped the Glock when he'd been shot. It appeared to have hit the floor and then skidded, placing it just out of my reach. Using Quinn's body to hide my movements, I crawled backward, sliding across the floor toward the gun. I had just closed my hand around its grip, wondering if I would ever get a chance to fire it, when I heard London speak five words that froze my heart: "I'll do whatever you want."

I turned to look at him, fear turning my blood to ice.

"I'll do whatever you want," he said again. "Please just let him go."

Julia sat back, pulling her hands away from Brian's face, and studied London for a moment. "I don't think I believe you. I think you're hoping I'll drop my defenses so you can come swooping in and save him."

London tried to speak, but couldn't seem to find words. Julia laughed.

"I thought so. So stubborn." She gave him a slow, lazy smile. "I've always known that about you. So I have a backup plan."

For a moment they just looked at each other, and then London sat back and wrapped his arms around his raised knees in a gesture I knew all too well.

"Come with me, and I'll take you to her. Continue to fight me, and you won't like the consequences."

I didn't know who the "her" in question might be, but I had no doubt that Julia was telling the truth about his not liking the consequences of continued resistance. London obviously had no doubts either. He staggered to his feet, looking broken, and held his hand out in front of him, his fingertips grazing the unseen barrier.

"Take me to her," he said, his voice low and hoarse.

Julia stood and extended her arm, moving forward until her fingertips touched the wall that separated her from London. And then she slid her hand forward, her fingers meeting London's.

I didn't know for sure that she'd dropped the wall. For all I knew, she could have just made a hole for herself. But it was the only chance I was likely to get. I rose into a kneeling shooter's pose, braced my right wrist in my left hand, and fired. Then I fired again.

The surprised look on Julia's face as she crumpled to the floor is something I will never forget. It will haunt me for the rest of my life.

London stared at her in shock for a moment before moving to kneel at Brian's side, his fingers feeling for a pulse. A few seconds later, he doubled over, his forehead resting against Brian's chest, and my heart did a backflip. I couldn't make myself move, though. I just knelt there, holding the gun, as if waiting for Julia to rise up and make a target of herself again.

Sometime later—it could have been seconds or minutes or years—someone took the gun from my hand and made it disappear. Then London was in front of me, taking my face in his hands. I could see his lips moving, but I couldn't make sense of whatever he was saying.

He stood and pulled me to my feet, turning me toward the door. I watched Carmichael help Dylan stand and then escort her to where Brian lay, unmoving. A young man and woman I didn't recognize knelt beside him, and I realize they had moved him onto a stretcher. I tried to ask what I desperately needed to know—if he was alive—but the answer came in a form I never would have imagined. Violent spasms wracked Brian's body, and I heard someone say the word "seizure." Funny how that one word made it through the fog around my brain.

"Will he be okay?" I heard myself ask.

"The medic says he'll live," London told me. "Too soon to tell how much damage was done."

"Alive is good," I said. And then the world went kind of gray around the edges.

I felt strong arms lifting me, and I snuggled in close. I felt weak as a kitten, like I couldn't lift my arms or my head. Sound seemed far away and what words I heard were back to making no sense at all. I gave in to the feeling instead of fighting it, greeting darkness like an old friend.

Not much time could have passed between my passing out and my coming around again. I woke lying on the rug in the master bath with Ashe and London sitting beside me. Ashe smiled down at me as I looked up at him.

"There you are," he said. "Knew you couldn't stay away."

I struggled to sit up, and the two of them helped me. London stood and pulled me to my feet—again—and I realized with a start that we were both covered in blood.

"Don't freak out on me," London said, pulling me into his arms.

I felt the warm emotional trickle of projected calm flowing over me and realized that I was no longer wearing my amulet. Pulling back, I reached up to feel for the chain, just to be sure.

"It's in the bedroom," Ashe said. "You needed help. You still do, but I'm going to let London take over from here." He patted London on the shoulder as he moved past him toward the bathroom door. "You okay, Stretch?"

London nodded, and Ashe left, pulling the door shut behind him. Without letting go of me, London turned on the shower and fiddled with it until he got the temperature right. Then he stripped us both out of our clothes and pulled me into the shower.

I tried to clean myself up, but my hands didn't seem to want to obey the commands from my brain. London ended up washing my hair and soaping my skin. The act should have been sexy as hell, but under the circumstances, I didn't feel much of anything.

Once we were clean and dry, London draped my amulet around my neck and pulled me down onto the bed to snuggle, still naked. It wasn't about sex, but about comfort, about the simple, basic need to hold and be held. Sometime later, I slept fitfully, my sleep punctuated with nightmares. Only after the sun had risen did we both finally fall into the deep, restful sleep of sheer exhaustion.
Chapter Twenty-Seven

When I woke, the daylight was fading and I was alone. Memories of the night before filled my head, but I shoved them away as best I could and climbed out of bed. Someone had been kind enough to find clothes for me and leave them where I could find them. I carried them into the bathroom with me, and by the time I started dragging them on I was awake enough to realize that my nameless benefactor hadn't bothered to include a bra. Not Dylan then. I frowned at my Medusa-like reflection and ran a brush—not mine, but I didn't give a damn—through my hair. It didn't help much, but at least I could say I tried.

I wandered into the living room where I found London and Ashe deep in conversation—conversation that halted as soon as I walked through the doorway. Ashe turned to see what had interrupted their discussion and gave me a smile.

"Come join us," he said, and I crossed the room toward the couch where they were sitting.

As I moved past Ashe, he pulled me down to cuddle on his lap. It didn't feel the least bit sexual or romantic, more like my vague memories of my dad holding me when I was little. London took my hand and leaned in to kiss me. They were treating me like I was fragile, and I wanted to be pissed about it but couldn't summon the energy to care. I leaned against Ashe and closed my eyes, an action which I immediately regretted.

The nightmare images from the night before flooded back into my mind. Brian's seizure, Adrian crumpled on the floor beneath a pile of rubble, the gaping hole in Quinn's shoulder, his blood on my hands, and, most of all, the surprised look on Julia's face and the wounds that had blossomed on her chest. I started shaking, and it only got worse when I remembered Peterson's absence the night before and what it must mean.

"Ron's dead, isn't he?" I asked.

Ashe held me closer, like he could stop my shaking through sheer force of will, and London gripped my hand a little tighter.

"The medics say he never even knew what hit him," Ashe said. "He didn't suffer and he never had a chance to be afraid. It's not much comfort, but we take what we can get."

Tears blurred my vision and burned my nose. I hadn't known Ron Peterson well, but he'd been a decent guy. He hadn't deserved to die, for sure. I wondered if he had a family and said a silent prayer for everyone who would have to face life without him in it.

"Where's everyone else?" I asked as London brushed tears from my cheek.

"Here and there," Ashe said before London could answer. "Carmichael's holed up in one of the bedrooms with a fifth of whiskey. He's convinced that Ronnie knew what he was setting himself up for when they traded places. Hell, he might even be right. Ron had a knack for prescience. Might have been he knew the risk he was taking."

"Everyone else is at the hospital," London added. "They're releasing Adrian today, and Quinn's apparently flirting with all the nurses."

"And Brian?"

"He's not doing so great," London said, looking away.

Ashe tightened the arm around my shoulders, giving me a little squeeze. "What your idiot boyfriend meant to say is that Brian's got a long recovery ahead of him. He's not in any danger. He's gonna be all right."

I leaned my head against the back of the couch, my face half-buried in Ashe's hair. It was the first time I'd seen it down instead of tied back. Up this close it was more blond than grey and smelled like summertime.

"The doctors aren't sure how 'all right' he's going to be," London added. "Right now, it's not looking too good."

"He's still breathing, Stretch," Ashe said. "And he's got that pretty little blonde of his to play nurse for him. He could be doing a lot worse."

"And he has hope," another voice chimed in from somewhere. I lifted my head to smile at Adrian. He was moving slowly, like every step hurt, which it probably did, but he smiled back at me. "He's getting better, London," he added. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

"What are you guys not saying?" I asked.

Adrian eased himself down onto the sofa. He looked at Ashe and at London, studying their expressions, and then answered me.

"Whatever Julia did to him caused some neurological damage. His brain's been pretty fuzzy, but that's improved a lot."

"That's good," London interrupted. "Last I heard, he wasn't even recognizing anyone."

"Yeah, that's gone. His head's clearing. And the rest of it...well he's taking it in stride. He says he's happy just to still be alive."

"Rest of what?" I demanded.

Adrian took a deep breath, winced, and blew it out. "His fine motor control is shot to hell."

And just like that my tears were back. I covered my face with one hand and buried it in Ashe's hair. Brian, without the ability to play his guitar.

Music was his greatest love, next to Dylan. It was more than just a hobby or a job, it was how he dealt with his emotions, how he connected to the world, how he expressed himself. His music was the core of who he was. Without it, I wasn't sure what would happen to him. I didn't figure it could be anything good.

"He's gonna be okay, princess," Ashe said, stroking my hair. "One way or another, he's gonna be just fine."

I just held on to Ashe and cried until I couldn't anymore, grateful for his and London's efforts to comfort me even though they didn't do a damn bit of good. Maybe later I would be able to believe that Brian would be all right, but just then I didn't think anything would be okay ever again.

After I'd cried myself out and washed away the tears, I felt more in control. I marched back into the living room, ready to demand to be taken up to the hospital, but the sight of Martine sitting on the sofa next to Adrian stopped me.

"Where did you come from?" I asked instead.

A smile curved her lips ever so slightly. "The hospital," she said. "I brought Adrian home, but I stopped to talk to the investigations team."

"The what?"

Her eyes flickered to Ashe and then back to me, her smile fading.

"We hadn't gotten that far," Ashe said. He held out his hand to me, and I took it, but I slid down into the tiny space between him and London rather than curling up in Ashe's lap again.

"This place has been crawling with agents," London said.

"So much for staying under the radar, huh?" I snuggled against London, and he hugged me to him.

Martine's smile was back. "I can make sure any file on London mysteriously disappears."

"What has your team found out?" Ashe interrupted. "They won't tell me a damn thing."

"Did you think they would?"

She launched into a detailed recap of everything that the army of agents had learned, and I managed to dig the pertinent information out of the avalanche of data: the explosion had been caused by good old-fashioned explosives rather than magic; Quinn and Peterson had been shot by rounds from some sort of high-powered, long-range sniper rifle; between logic and what Vanessa had told Martine, she'd determined that the two agents had been targeted because they presented a double threat, wielding both martial magic and mundane weaponry; and Julia wasn't working alone, but with a man who seemed to be her lover or boyfriend or maybe something more.

"Wait, whoa," I said. "Vanessa? When did you talk to Vanessa?"

"She was waiting for the field team last night," Ashe explained. "It was her, not Julia, that they spotted. One hell of a glamour enchantment laid on her, but it didn't fool Carmichael for a second."

"We took Vanessa into custody," Martine added. "I questioned her. It was difficult to sort out the facts from the fantasy, but I don't believe that the man she mentioned—the co-conspirator—is a figment of her deluded mind."

"What's going to happen to her?" I asked, pressing closer to London.

"Likely she will spend a long time in a mental facility. Perhaps they can even help her."

London tried to speak, but his voice cracked. A moment later, he tried again. "Do you have any idea who the man she mentioned might be?"

"None at all," Martine said with a slight shake of her head. "But if he exists—"

"Then this isn't over," I said, my voice little more than a whisper.

"That may not be true," Martine said. "From what Vanessa said—which may not be entirely accurate—calling out London was all Julia. The man in question helped her, but only because he thought London might be a useful part of a larger plan. Essentially, he didn't care whether London was on board."

"So, what? We spend the rest of our lives looking over one shoulder?"

"It's that or live with a guard detail from the agency," Ashe said. "It's your choice, but I'd choose a little healthy paranoia."

"I'm okay with that," Adrian said.

I thought about it for a moment and then nodded. "Me, too."

Martine looked pleased. I guess she agreed with Ashe that paranoia beat hell out of an agency detail.

"If you guys are done heaping bad news on my head, I'd really like to go to the hospital. I need to see Dylan and the boys. And I'm sure Dylan needs me, too."

Adrian nodded. "She's been missing you."

Ashe took my hand again and gave it a little squeeze. "Actually, princess, we're not quite done here."

Martine looked puzzled, and Adrian concerned. Neither of them knew what was going on either, but that didn't make me feel any better. I felt even worse when London inched away from me to sit on the opposite end of the sofa. I looked over at him, but he was staring at his clasped hands where they hung between his knees.

London just looked at his hands for a minute, then moistened his lips and ran his hands up and down the thighs of his jeans. He opened his mouth to speak a couple of times, but he couldn't seem to find any words. Finally he shook his head and went back to staring at his hands.

"Right there at the end," Ashe said, his voice hushed in the quiet room, "Julia sent London another projection. Another threat."

"There was a little girl," London said. "She said I wouldn't like the consequences if I didn't cooperate. I couldn't—"

"She threatened violence against a child?" Martine snapped.

"I don't know. I don't know what she was threatening. But...she..." He broke off, repeating the nervous thigh-rubbing gesture before sitting back and tilting his head so that he was staring up at the ceiling. "The sending sort of implied that the little girl is mine. Mine and Julia's."

Ashe's arms wrapped around me, maybe to comfort me, maybe to keep me from bolting. "If she even exists," he said.

"I know, I know. I was listening. But I have to know the truth. I have to try to find her."

Adrian and Martine both agreed at once. I agreed, too, but I was too much in shock to say it aloud, and by the time the world finally righted itself, the moment was long gone.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

London and I visited Brian in the hospital. Brian was in good spirits, despite his health problems. His speech was slightly slurred, his movements jerky and painstaking. As much as it hurt me to see him like that, I knew it had to be worse for Dylan.

While London filled Brian in on everything he'd missed, Dylan and I wandered the hospital hallways in search of caffeine and chocolate.

"I'm going to LA," Dylan told me as she twisted the cap off her Coke.

"That's not news, hon. Let me know what I can do to help with the move."

And that's when Dylan did something I'd rarely, if ever, seen her do. She burst into tears. I hugged her for a long time, fighting a losing battle against tears of my own.

Afterward, we wiped our eyes and noses on cheap dispenser napkins and drowned our sorrows in Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. It's cheaper than liquor and works a helluva lot better.

It'd be hard, being that far away from my evil twin, but I knew it was time for the next chapter in her adventure, and I sure as hell wasn't going to stand in her way—especially when Brian needed her so much more than I did, at least at the moment.

"What about you?" Dylan asked, licking chocolate off the candy wrapper. "Any chance I can convince you to come to LA after you graduate?"

I shrugged. "Depends on where I find a job. And anyway, I still have that damned internship to get through. I won't be joining you for a while, I don't think."

"Brian knows a lot of people." she began.

"Don't even start," I said. "I'm going to get an internship—and a job—based on my own merit or go live under a bridge. I don't do charity any more than you do."

"It's not charity. It's networking."

"Whatever. I still say 'no.'"

Dylan sighed. "I'm going to keep asking until you change your mind."

"Fair enough," I said, taking a swig of her Coke. "Ugh. Doesn't go well with chocolate."

After we'd finished our junk food binge, Dylan and I went back up to Brian's room. After a while, Dylan urged us to go home and sleep, saying there wasn't anything we could do for them at the moment. London and I said our goodbyes and looked in on Quinn, who was sleeping, before heading back to the safe house.

When we pulled up outside of the house in Winter Park, London parked and turned off the key, but neither of us got out of the car. We just sat and stared at the milling agents and the half-destroyed house, the sight of the previous night's confrontation. I don't know how long we would have sat there like that if Ashe hadn't come out to usher us into the house.

A woman I didn't recognize was sitting on one of the sofas when we came in. Ashe introduced her as Dr. Something-or-other-that-I-didn't-catch and told us she was a psychologist who worked with the agency. We got shanghaied into a freaking counseling session, right then and there.

It was the worst two hours of my life, but I felt more human afterward. And I knew for certain that London didn't hate me for doing what I felt I had to do. I wasn't sure when I'd stop feeling guilty about not feeling guilty, but Dr. Whatsit assured me that what I was feeling was normal in a case like this one. I didn't think there could ever have been a case anything like mine, but I appreciated the reassurance anyway.

The good doctor hooked me and London up with referrals to shrinks in our necks of the woods, specialists who worked with those of us who were clued in to the metaphysical world. I knew I would need someone to talk to, someone outside the situation, so I was grateful for the name and number of the psychologist in Houston. Thankfully, I wouldn't be the one paying the bill, though I wasn't really sure who would be. Maybe the agency, maybe London, maybe a mysterious benefactor. I couldn't even bring myself to care. I figured I'd earned a little free therapy.

The next couple of days were a blur of hospital visits, crying jags, therapy sessions, and cuddling up in bed with London. I booked a flight home, which London insisted on paying for, and tried to imagine going back to my former life. Somehow all the bits and pieces that had made up my world—beers and local bands with my friends, classrooms and essays, my live-action role-play group, laundry and dishes and errands—it all seemed so far away and unreal now. And so very, very unimportant.

The night before I was to leave, as I lay curled up with London trying to fall asleep, I felt his lips brush the shell of my ear. A couple more tentative kisses and touches asked my permission to explore farther, and I gave it. It was our first time together since the attack. On a physical level, it might have been the worst sex I'd had since losing my virginity. We were both tense and uncertain, and London seemed to think of me as fragile. On an emotional level, though, it was a time of healing that we both needed.

Thankfully, the wake-up sex the next morning was a helluva lot better.

We said our private goodbyes in the bedroom long before Ashe drove us to the airport and they both hugged me and told me to call when I got home. I promised to call them, and then turned and walked away. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done.

Over the next couple of weeks, I forced myself back into the rhythm of classes and chores, squeezing in time for a trip to Dallas to pack up some things that Dylan didn't want the movers messing with. As the week passed, my routine started to feel more normal, and with the help of the psychologist, I began to feel more normal as well.

Dylan kept me updated where Brian's recovery was concerned. Every day was better for him than the day before, and he surprised the doctors with how quickly he improved. He probably wouldn't be ready to play the next leg of DPS's tour, but he'd be back on the stage, and sooner rather than later.

Ashe and I talked once in a while, and he let me know that Martine and her friends at the agency hadn't made any headway at all in figuring out who the mysterious man in league with Julia might have been. For now, we'd just have to keep looking over our shoulders.

Much like everything else, my relationship with London fell into a state of stasis. Between learning more about his magic, looking for the girl who might be his daughter, and gearing up for the next segment of the DPS tour—including practicing with a temporary replacement for Brian—London didn't exactly have a lot of time. I was busy catching up on the school work I'd missed and trying to keep from falling behind on the new material as well as looking for an internship, which is pretty much a full-time gig in and of itself. We kept in touch as best we could, with brief phone calls and emails and social networking sites. That sort of communication doesn't foster growth, but at least we weren't losing any ground. We decided to take it one day at a time and just see how things worked out.

But then, what else can you really do? No matter how much we plan and scheme and set goals and work toward some end, life can only be lived one day at a time. The trick is learning to balance making the most of each day you're given by living in the moment with planning for the future, cherishing memories, and learning from the past. I'm not sure I'll ever find equilibrium, but I'm practicing the balancing act—one day at a time.

Everything You Are: Jukebox Heroes Two

First Chapter Preview

"Going to kill my boss. Stuck working a double. Sorry. Maybe next weekend?"

I read the text twice before setting my phone aside with a sigh. Since I'd moved to Austin three weeks before, Lydia, my brother's boyfriend's sister, had been trying to drag me out to the infamous Sixth Street area to hit the clubs. She'd worn me down, and I'd agreed to meet her at a restaurant near the clubs. And now she couldn't come out to play.

While I polished off my overpriced faux-gourmet burger, I considered the possibilities. I could go home and sleep, or read, or watch TV, but I was tired of staring at the walls of my crappy apartment. I could do something less daunting than walking into a club alone, but I hadn't been in Austin long enough to know what my options might be. Or I could suck it up and wander around and check out the clubs. I had to spread my wings sometime. Besides, I'd already driven downtown and paid for parking.

"To hell with it," I said to myself as I flagged down my waitress for the check. "What's the worst that can happen?"

The night was young—in its infancy, really—and the streets and clubs hadn't filled up yet. I had no idea how busy they'd get on a random Tuesday. I hoped I could find a place that was busy enough for me to fade into a crowd.

I wandered down the streets, studying the signs and neon lights. I'd heard of a few of the bars, but I didn't know much about any of them. I stood on the sidewalk for a while considering the advisability of choosing a bar by the eenie-meenie method. It seemed like a bad plan, so I kept walking.

Just when I was ready to give up and head back home, I saw it—the little hole-in-the-wall that would become my first Austin nightclub experience. It didn't look like much from the outside, but I liked the name: Haven. With all I'd been through in the last few months, a haven was what I needed. I took a deep breath for courage and headed inside.

Haven's heavy double doors opened onto a small foyer. A long counter with a register stood to one side, a jumble of brass stands and velvet rope on the other. I had just enough time to wonder why there wasn't anyone manning the register when a curvy twenty-something with violet hair popped up from behind the counter.

"Hi!"

"Hi," I returned, with far less enthusiasm.

"No cover tonight. And I'm going to card you just because it would be rude not to."

I laughed and dug my driver's license out of the back pocket of my jeans. Violet looked it over and then looked at me for a long moment before handing it back.

"Wow," she said. "I guess it's good I card everyone. I thought you were my age. Guess I'm not too good at guessing."

"It's not just you. I get that a lot."

"Not sure if that'd be awesome or annoying."

A couple of guys came in, and Violet told me to have fun and turned to card the college boys. I thanked her and stepped through the inner doors into the club.

This early, only a few patrons milled around, sipping drinks and chatting over the piped in music. I recognized the song playing—a Journey tune that made my heart do a stutter-step. I'd been in the club for thirty seconds, and already I found myself getting maudlin over my absentee boyfriend. This did not bode well.

I allowed myself a moment to think about my boyfriend, London, as I made my way to the bar. We'd been a couple for six months now. We hadn't spent much of that time together, but I'd known it would be that way when I got involved with him. A long-distance relationship is a given when you're dating a musician who spends half his life on tour.

Forcing London out of my mind, I conjured up a half-assed smile for the cute—and obviously gay—bartender. His smile was a lot brighter and more genuine than mine.

"Hey, sweetie. What can I get for you?"

I half-sat on a stool and leaned against the bar. "I have absolutely no idea." I paused for a split second before adding, "That's not quite true. I don't want gin or beer."

He cocked his head and looked at me, like I was a puzzle he was trying to figure out. "You look like a fruit drink kind of girl."

I nodded, and he started grabbing bottles.

"I'm going to make you something special. If you don't like it, we'll figure something else out. But you'll like it."

He managed to not come off sounding like an arrogant jerk, and I found myself intrigued. I settled onto the barstool to watch him work his magic, and before long a beautiful, fruity concoction sat on the bar in front of me. I took a healthy drag on the straw, and closed my eyes to savor the drink's flavor.

"Awesome," I said.

The bartender rewarded me with another of his million megawatt smiles. I paid him for the drink and took another pull or three before turning to survey the club.

Haven was an unassuming neighborhood bar. Pool tables and dartboards stood on one side, but the main body of the club consisted of a small stage and a lot of four-seater tables. A narrow counter lined with barstools formed a perimeter around the cluster of tables.

The seats nearest the stage were beginning to fill up. The college boys who'd come in after me had joined a couple of girls and were drinking beer from big plastic cups. At the next table, three women in dresses and heels sipped wine and laughed together. Farther down, a mountain of a man in a leather jacket sat hunched over, scribbling away at who-knows-what.

A young, long-haired guy with a guitar case in his hand stopped to say something to the guy in the leather jacket, and I found myself reaching for my phone. This time it wasn't London I was thinking of, but his best friend, Brian. Brian was a musician, too—a guitarist. He'd suffered a horrible injury a few months before and had been forced to give up playing guitar for a while. I hadn't heard from him or his girlfriend, my best friend Dylan, in a day or two, so I fired off a quick text to her.

When I looked up again, the guy with the guitar was up on the stage, fiddling around with...something. I love music and concerts, but I won't even pretend to know anything about the technological stuff that musicians use. In my world, pickups are something you haul furniture in and boards are what you use to build shelves.

Dylan answered my text, and we messaged back and forth for a little while. I finished my drink and ordered another. Checked Twitter and Facebook. Wondered why I was sitting in a bar doing this when I could be curled up on my couch at home.

And then the canned music switched off and a voice welcomed us to open mic night at Haven. The first brave soul was introduced—Mike something, I think—and the long-haired guy with the guitar launched into an acoustic version of a somewhat popular song. He played well, changing the song up enough to keep it interesting without losing the soul of the original version. It was a great way to start things off. He followed it up with a song he told us he'd just written. I thought it needed a little polish, but his voice and the lyrics drew me in. When he stepped offstage, I applauded along with the rest of the rapidly filling club.

A female duo came next. They sang a couple of country songs, both originals and both pretty good even though they were a little sappy. As the girls gave up the stage to a fat, middle-aged guy, I picked up my drink and headed for the railing around the seating area. I wanted a better vantage point and knew if I didn't grab a seat right then, I wasn't going to find one. I lucked out and landed a spot near the stage.

The fat guy turned out to have a great voice...and no sense of cadence. I tried to concentrate on my drink, on the crowd, on anything but the trainwreck on the stage. When he finally walked away from the microphone, I breathed an audible sigh of relief. The woman sitting next to me laughed.

"Amen, sister," she said, and raised her glass toward me in a little salute.

The emcee's voice came over the speakers again, but instead of announcing the next act, he asked, "How you guys doin' tonight?"

There was a smattering of cheers and applause, but most of the room carried on with their private conversations or, like me, kept sipping at their drinks.

"Come on!" the emcee said. "It's a beautiful night, you're sitting in a bar in one of the most awesome cities in the world, you've got a drink in your hand...how you doin' tonight?"

The cheers and applause were quite a bit louder this time.

"That's what I thought."

A big guy in a leather jacket stepped up onto the stage, and I realized it was the one I'd seen earlier. He stripped off the jacket and tossed it onto a chair, then turned his attention to adjusting the microphone stand on the stage, dragging it up a few more inches so that he didn't have to stoop to speak into it.

"Michael, come on up here, buddy," he said.

While Michael—the long-haired musician who'd opened the show—slid his guitar out of its case and plugged up, I studied the guy at the microphone. He looked like he should be tackling quarterbacks or wrestling bears or something, not playing emcee in a club in downtown Austin. He had to be as tall as London, who came damned near to topping six and a half feet. Where London was long and lean, this guy looked like he bench-pressed city buses for fun. His spiky hair, tiny silver hoop earrings, and black eyeliner made an odd counterpoint to his barrel chest and bulging biceps. Somehow, he made it work.

Michael said something to the guy at the mic, who said something back. Then Michael started strumming his guitar, and the emcee started to sing.

I didn't recognize the song, but it didn't matter. From the first note, I was enthralled. The singer's voice would have been enough on its own, but he also knew how to work the crowd. He owned the stage, without resorting to special effects or theatrics. He was a born performer.

The song ended, and the audience went a little nuts. I clapped along with the rest of the room, hoping we'd be treated to another song. For once, I got what I wanted.

"I've got something new for you guys," the singer said. "I heard this the other day, and I thought to myself, I need to show this song to my friends over at Haven." A few of the patrons whooped and catcalled, and he flashed them a lopsided grin. "Anyway, here it is. I hope you like it."

The song was another unfamiliar one, but it had the kind of beat that entices people to clap along. I found myself singing the chorus the second time it came around, as well.

The singer twisted his hips in something that wasn't quite a dance move, and I found myself admiring the way the denim of his jeans hugged his wide hips and sturdy thighs. I felt heat rush into my cheeks as I dragged my eyes upward. It didn't help much. Instead of hips and thighs, I found myself staring at tanned biceps that would have made Popeye jealous. The edges of tattoos peeked out from under the skin-tight sleeves of his t-shirt, and I wondered what sort of designs they might be. That, at least, seemed safer than drooling over the guy.

When the song was over and the next act had taken the stage, I found myself pulling out my cell phone to text London. I missed him. And I felt a little guilty about ogling another guy.

London didn't answer right away, which wasn't too surprising. He was playing a show that night, some charity function. I wasn't too good at keeping track of the time differences, but I was pretty sure he was in the middle of a gig. I tucked the cell back into my pocket and tried to keep my attention on the here and now.

There were a few more acts—a couple of singers with guitars, a three-piece band, and another female duo—and then the emcee returned to the stage. After I found myself staring a little too hard again, I finished off my third drink, settled my bill, and headed for the front doors. I could wander around in the crisp autumn air until the alcohol had worn off and then go home and curl up with a book and a mug of hot chocolate.

I waved at the purple-haired girl as I crossed the foyer and stepped outside, pausing just past the threshold to enjoy the feel of the cool October night on my flushed face.

"You're not leaving already are you?" a familiar voice asked as the doors closed behind me.

I turned toward the voice and found myself face-to-face—well, okay, face-to-chest—with the very person who'd made me flee the club.

"Yeah, I..." I couldn't think of a good excuse for leaving, so I just shrugged.

"Bill didn't scare you off did he?"

"Bill?" A flicker of memory stirred, and I realized he was talking about the guy who'd taken the stage as I was leaving. "Wanna-be Elvis? No, he didn't scare me off. He wasn't _that_ bad."

The guy laughed. "Wanna-be Elvis. Never noticed it before, but you're right—he does kinda look like the King." He leaned back against the bricks of the building and smiled at me. "You okay to drive?"

"Probably not," I admitted, "but I'm not planning on trying, not for a while anyway."

A frown-line furrowed his brow, and he pushed away from the wall. "You're not gonna wander around by yourself?"

I shrugged. "I'll probably drunk-dial my boyfriend, get his voicemail, leave a message I'll regret later, call my best friend, apologize profusely for interrupting her in the middle of doing god-knows-what to her boyfriend, get hit on by an old-drunk guy, and then go lock myself in my car and listen to my iPod until I feel like I can drive home."

He stared at me in stunned silence for a moment, then grinned and shook his head. "Save yourself a headache—come back inside for a while."

I cocked my head to the side and studied him.

"Why do you care?"

He shrugged. "Do I need a reason?"

"Yeah, I think maybe you do."

He grinned again. "I could tell you it's in my job description."

"But that's not the reason. That's just a convenient excuse."

"True."

"And you did catch the part where I have a boyfriend?"

"Yeah, I did. But he's not here, and I am." He paused for a second, his grin fading. "Wow. That sounded like a bad pickup line. What I meant was he's not here to look out for you."

Anger flashed through me. "I don't need him to look out for me," I snapped.

He held his hands up, palms facing me. "Sorry! Sorry."

I turned away from him, clenching my jaw and my fists and willing away the tears that were stinging the backs of my eyes. The truth was that I wanted London there to look after me. Need him to, no. Want him to, hells yes. I was tired of being strong, and I was tired of being alone.

"Hey," the guy said, his voice soft and low. "Just come back inside, okay?" There was silence for a second, then he added, "I'll sing you a song. Anything you want to hear."

His teasing, wheedling tone was almost enough to make me smile. Almost.

"Anything?" I asked, cursing my voice for shaking with unshed tears.

"Anything." Another pause. "Well, anything I know. And, like...in my range, but...yeah."

I let out a little hiccup of a laugh and turned toward him. I knew I should go, but this random guy was the first person to take any kind of interest in me since I'd moved to Austin. I didn't count Lydia, since we were practically related.

"Okay," I said.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

He smiled, an uncertain, almost shy smile. "Okay," he repeated. He stood there smiling at me for a long moment before he tugged his hand out of the back pocket of his jeans and offered it to me. "I'm Chris, by the way," he said. "Chris Marshall."

I shook his hand. "Elizabeth Morgan."

"It's good meeting you, Elizabeth Morgan," he said.

And strangely enough, I knew he meant it.

Also by LB Clark

Everything You Are: Jukebox Heroes Two

Storm: Jukebox Heroes Three

To Run Out of Air: Jukebox Heroes Four

Aftermath: a Jukebox Heroes short story

The Hand of Fate: a Jukebox Heroes prequel novella

Music Speaks – a collection of eleven music-themed short stories by nine indie authors (includes three Jukebox Heroes short stories)

Smoke and Mirrors: Hollywood Knights One

It Is What It Is: Hollywood Knights Two

