Blood Kissed (Lizzie Grace 1)

I swung the pack over my shoulder and hurried after Aiden. He’d already climbed into his truck and was tapping his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. I threw the pack into the foot well and then climbed in. “Sorry, but I wasn’t about to go anywhere without some means of protection.”

“Knives and potions aren’t going to stop a bullet.”

Again trepidation stirred. Whatever was coming, it involved bullets as much as magic. “Are guns even legal on the reservation?”

“For the general population, no, but there are some farmers on the outer edges who have been given special licenses. Snakes and other vermin can be a real problem around these parts.”

Snakes were a problem Australia-wide, but surely other vermin—like foxes—would have more sense than to encroach on a werewolf reservation.

We’d just reached the outskirts of town when the incoming call sign flashed up on the truck’s computer screen.

He flicked a button on the steering wheel and then said, voice carefully neutral, “What can I do for you, Blume?”

“Where are you?”

“Driving. And I’m not in the mood for games, so just spit out whatever it is you want.”

“When I read Tala’s report about the witch’s dream, it said—”

“Ms. Grace is in the truck with me,” Aiden said. “So if you have a question for her, ask it.”

“Did you, or did you not,” Blume said, “mention the presence of black-and-white wingtip shoes when describing that cabin your dream showed you?”

“I did.” I shared an uneasy glance with Aiden. “Why?”

“Because a parcel was just delivered to Hart, and inside is a wingtip shoe.”

“You’re staying at the Lodge, aren’t you?” Aiden said.

“Yes.”

“We’ll be there in five.” Aiden hit the accelerator, and then glanced at me. “The other business will have to wait.”

I nodded and hung on as we hurtled through the streets, my knuckles white with the force of my grip against the door.

Five minutes later, he swung into the drive of what looked to be the grounds of an old school, and came to an abrupt halt at the building’s entrance. I scrambled out of the truck and hurried after him as he strode up the steps to the door.

Blume was waiting for us in the foyer, and led us up a rather grand old staircase. A door at the far end of the wide hall was open. Hart was inside, perched on the arm of a well-padded chair. On the table in front of him was one of the two shoes I’d seen in my dream.

My steps faltered. I didn’t have to get any closer to feel the foulness emanating from it.

“Is that the type of shoe you dreamed about?” Hart said, waving a hand at the wingtip on the table.

I swallowed to ease the sudden dryness in my throat. “It’s not just the same type—it’s actually his.”

“And you’re sure of that? I thought with psychometry that you had to touch it first or something?”

I gave him a smile that held little in the way of amusement. “It depends on the strength of the psychic and whether the object itself holds a strong enough connection to whoever—whatever—is being traced.”

“So you can find him through it?” Blume asked.

“Probably.” I crossed my arms, but it did little to ward off the encroaching chill. “There’s one problem, however—that shoe is an invitation, gentlemen. We answer it, and we may well walk into a trap.”

“Which is why we should make the attempt to track him now, when the sun has forced him to sleep,” Hart said.

“He’s got hired guns working for him, and they’re not restricted by sunlight. I’m also betting he expects us to react immediately.”

“All of which is undoubtedly true,” Blume said. “But this may be our one chance to grab the bastard—we have no choice but to take it.”