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?”