Kate Daniels 03 - Magic Strikes

is the part where I threaten you with terrible bodily harm and promise to dance on your grave unless you tell me everything you know. There’s just one slight problem.”
    Derek grinned and for a moment boy wonder was back in all his glory. “I won’t believe your promises of breaking every bone in my body?”
    “Precisely.”
    He barked a short laugh.
    “Tell me what this is about. Whatever it is, I will help you.”
    “I can’t, Kate. It’s something I have to do on my own. Just please give her the note, okay? Promise me.”
    I wanted to grab him and shake him until the story fell out. But the only way to stay in this game meant taking the note. “I promise.”
    “And swear you won’t read it?”
    Oh, for the love of God. “Give me the damn note. I said I won’t read it.”
    He offered me the paper and I snatched it from his fingers.
    “Thank you.” A happy little smile curled his lips. He backed away two steps and broke into a run. Before I knew it, he was gone, melting into the darkness of the alley between the decrepit buildings.
    I stood in the parking lot holding his note. A nasty chill crawled down my spine. Derek was in trouble. I didn’t know how or why, but I had a strong gut feeling that it was bad and it would end even worse. If I’d had a drop of sense, I’d have opened the note and read it.
    I sighed, got into the car, and stuck the paper into my glove compartment. Common sense was not among my virtues. I’d promised and I had to stick to it.
    My back ached. Even my bones felt tired. I just wanted to lie down somewhere, close my eyes, and forget the world existed. I buckled my seat belt. I needed to know more about the Games and I needed the information before tonight. In the morning I would go to the Order and check their files. And check on that report from PAD. Nothing said the shapeshifter murder and Derek’s mess were connected, but I’d feel better if I ruled that possibility out. Even though the Pack was handling the murder. Even if it wasn’t my case. And that didn’t bother me one bit. Nope, not at all.
    I sat in my car, feeling the fatigue wash over me, and thought of Curran. Two months ago I’d found the Beast Lord in my house reading a book. We made some small talk, I threatened him with bodily harm if he didn’t leave, and then he moved like he would kiss me. But instead he winked, whispered, “Psych,” and took off into the night.
    He had made me coffee. I drank every last bit of it that night.
    I wasn’t sure if he would come back, but if he did, I wanted to be prepared. I had imagined our encounter a dozen times. I had constructed long conversations in my head, full of barbs and witty comebacks.
    The bastard didn’t show.
    The longer his MIA lasted, the surer I became that he would never show up. It was blatantly obvious—he enjoyed screwing with me, and having done so, he got all funned out and moved on. Perfectly fine with me. Best solution possible. I had dreamt of him once or twice, but other than that, everything was peachy.
    Wherever this thread of Derek’s troubles led, I really didn’t cherish the idea of finding Curran on the other end.
    It was always good to have a Plan of Action. I started the engine. Item one of the POA: avoid the Beast Lord. Item two: do not fall asleep.

CHAPTER 3

    “KATE? ”
    I have a superior reaction time. That was why although I shot out of my chair, jumped onto my desk, and attempted to stab the intruder into my office in the throat, I stopped the blade two inches before it touched Andrea’s neck. Because she was my best friend, and sticking knives into your best friend’s windpipe was generally considered to be a social faux pas.
    Andrea stared at the black blade of the throwing dagger. “That was great,” she said. “What will you do for a dollar?”
    I scowled.
    “Scary but not worth a buck.” Andrea perched on the corner of my desk. Short, blond, and deadly. A full knight of the Order, Andrea had one of those nice-girl faces that instantly put people at ease and made them fall over themselves in a rush to disclose their problems. I once went shopping with her, and we heard no fewer than three life stories from total strangers. People never wanted to tell me their life stories. They usually scooted out of my way and said things like, “Take whatever you want; just go.”
    Of course, if the total strangers had known Andrea could shoot dots off dominoes at twenty yards, they might have decided to keep their