Inked

exploded.
    The remainder of the glass door protected us from some of the pieces of flying metal, and the shield Hargrove threw up while still on one knee absorbed the rest. I would have helped him, but it was all I could do to rein in the waves of magic thrumming under my skin, begging for a spell, an aim, a target . I concentrated on not gasping as the now-familiar vise clenched around my gut. It felt like all of my organs were twisting together, as if they were trying to wring themselves out. I’d have clawed at my flesh to straighten them out, if that hadn’t been a completely crazy idea.
    As it was, my fingers clenched over the circle of radiating lines just below my third rib. It looked like a stylized sun a little larger than the pad of my thumb, but the ugly silver scar was a blank in my memory. They say you never hear the one that kills you. But you don’t hear the one that knocks you cold for three days, either.
    Or the one that leaves you a magical cripple.
    “Watch it,” Caleb murmured as the boss turned toward us, his shield riddled with glass and metal, like a porcupine with fully extended quills.
    “Are you under some semblance of control?” Hargrove demanded icily.
    I nodded and his shields fell, causing the trapped pieces to drop to the floor with a clatter. Jamie ran to gather up the remains of the staff, while Caleb helped the boss back to his feet. I didn’t budge. Hargrove had caught me on his glare like a bug on a pin, his expression somewhere between murderous and mortified. I didn’t understand that last part, until I belatedly noticed the man standing off to one side, out of the line of fire. No, not a man, I realized, as the spicy, musky scent of Clan hit me.
    “It’s good to see you again, Lia.”
    “Mr. Arnou,” I said awkwardly.
    “Sebastian, please.” He paused, glancing at Hargrove’s furious expression. “We are family, after all.”
    Well, crap.

2
    “YOU might have mentioned that you were related to the werewolf king!” Hargrove whispered viciously, as we trudged up eight flights.
    I glanced up the stairs, to where the individual in question was being regaled with some story by Jamie. Despite his recent brush with disaster, Sebastian Arnou appeared unruffled. He reminded me of my mother, who had been so comfortable in human form that it had been almost impossible to believe that she was anything else. Only the occasional scent of something rare and wild gave it away, or a too fluid movement when surprised.
    Or watching her morph into a 150-pound wolf, of course.
    Not that I’d ever seen Arnou’s leader in wolf form, or caught off guard, either. And today was no exception. He was wearing a crisp tan suit that set off his short dark hair and vivid blue eyes. His shoes were Prada, his watch was Piaget and his demeanor was set on pleasant. It was difficult to imagine anyone who looked less like the slavering beast of legend.
    “His title is bardric ,” I explained. “The Weres don’t actually have a—” I stopped at the blistering look Hargrove sent me. “And he’s more of an acquaintance, really.”
    Hargrove threw a sound shield around us with an impatient gesture; I guess he knew about Were hearing. “He said you were family!”
    “It wasn’t meant literally. I recently did a favor for his clan and they, um, sort of adopted me. It’s an honorary thing.”
    Hargrove didn’t look satisfied. “Then perhaps you can explain why he insisted on seeing you after the incident this morning?”
    “What incident?”
    “A Were, or what was left of one, was fished out of a ditch along Highway 91 by one of our patrols. They saw several men dragging it out of a drainage tunnel, and when they went to investigate, the men ran off, leaving the corpse behind. Of course we informed the Clan Council. I assumed they would send someone for the body, but imagine my surprise when the Arnou himself showed up to take possession! And demanded to see you and Kempster.”
    “Jamie?” I’d assumed I was in for it, but I’d wondered why Hargrove had ordered him upstairs, too.
    “And he wants the most current map we have of Tartarus. But he won’t say why.”
    I assumed that Sebastian wasn’t asking for a map of the Greek underworld, but of its Vegas equivalent. Back in the eighties, an extensive network of drainage tunnels had been put in place beneath the city to help control the runoff from the brief rainy season. Since they were dry much of the year, they’d quickly been