Page 12 of Of Flame and Fate
“Dude. Where are you?”
“Virginia Street,” I say, struggling to speak and breathe, and freaking run.
“Still?” she asks.
“It’s a long damn street,” I stammer, winding around a crowd of people emptying out of a club.
“Do you still have eyes on your guy?”
I sigh, wondering what spy movie she swiped that term from. “Yeah, sure,” I mutter.
Until I don’t.
“Shit,” I say.
“What’s wrong? Did you lose him?” Shayna asks.
I scan the area, taking a moment to catch my breath. Shayna inherited a little bit of her mate’s essence. It’s enough that she can heal, albeit at a much slower rate, and more than enough that she wouldn’t struggle to catch up to a vamp like I am.
“Yes,” I admit. I adjust my dangly purse against my shoulder. “What about you? Are you still at the club?”
“Yup. The eagle has landed. She’s in the nest and watching the eggs.”
I assume she means she hasn’t left the club. “What about the other vamp, is he still there?”
There’s a pause. “Didn’t you hear me? The eagle is in the nest—thenest—and she’s watching the eggs.”
“Shayna, I don’t know what that means. Please speak a language I can understand.”
“You’re cranky.”
I’ll give her that. “Is the vamp there or not?”
“Uh-huh, I’m looking right at him,” she says slowly.
“Does he see you?” I ask carefully, noting how she quiets.
“Now he does . . . I think he picked up my scent.”
“What?” We were seated in the upper tier of the club, with an entire dance floor of gyrating bodies separating us. Magic gives off a certain aroma, earthy and primal forweres, stormy and dangerous for witches, and sex and candy for vampires (I know, but I don’t make the rules). My sisters and I being different, give off totally unique scents. According to Gemini, we smell like power. I’ll take it. I just don’t like those we’re trying to follow to know it, too.
“Shayna,” I say. “How can he possibly scent you?”
“I don’t know. But he did.”
“My guess is he’s about to bolt.” I glance up. “I’m next to El Dorado. Don’t go after him by yourself. Take Emme and—”
“Wait, Emme isn’t with you?” she asks.
I stop moving. “No . . .”
“Oh, no,” she says.
“Oh, shit,” I say.
A wall of men step in front of me. All with long beards; all wearing lumberjack chic attire; all full of themselves.
“Hey, baby,” one of them says, stroking his beard suggestively. “Looking for a good time?”