Must Love Hellhounds

anything but a big, scary, silent son of a bitch?”
    It was tempting to agree, to hold on to hope, but Sara shook her head. “I have to be realistic. The man’s a complete loner. It’s why he’s the Slayer.” Dragging in a shaky breath, she sat back up and said, “Take us to New York. I have a job to do.”
    Strong words, but her fingers found their way into a pocket, skating over the tiny serrated sawblade hidden within. It was Deacon’s. The man had some really interesting weapons—like a gun that fired these spinning circular babies instead of bullets. It was what he’d been using out in Tim’s junkyard. That made her wonder how Lucy was doing.
    A tiny smile tugged at her lips—who knew her favorite memory of Deacon would be of him cuddling a vicious hellhound of a dog?

Chapter Nine

    Two months later, Sara stared at her reflection—the woman who looked back at her appeared both poised and quintessen tially elegant in a strapless black sheath. Her hair had been styled in a sophisticated bun at the back of her head, her new bangs swept to the side with an elegance she’d never have been able to achieve in the field, and her face made up with skill that highlighted her cheekbones, brought out her eyes. “I feel like a fraud.”
    Simon chuckled and walked to stand behind her. “But you look precisely what you are—a powerful, beautiful woman.” His eyes dropped to her necklace. “Good choice.”
    It was that shiny serrated blade. Deacon’s blade. She’d had it strung on a silver chain. “Thanks.”
    “Some of the people you meet tonight will try to sneer at you. There are a few who see hunters as nothing more than jumped-up hired help.”
    “Oh, like Mrs. Abernathy?” she said, tone dry as she named the society matron whose party she was about to attend. “She asked me if I’d like some help with ‘appropriate clothing, dear.’”
    “Exactly.” Simon squeezed her shoulders. “Here’s some advice—anytime one of those ‘blue bloods’ tries to bring you down, remember that you deal with angels every day. Most of them would pee their pants at the thought.”
    She choked. “Simon!”
    “It’s true.” He shrugged. “And someday, you might even deal with a member of the Cadre. No matter how important they think they are, most humans will never come within touching distance of an archangel.”
    “I’d probably pee my pants then, too,” she muttered.
    “No, you won’t.” Unexpectedly serious words. “As for the upper-crust vampires, remember, we hunt them. Not the other way around.”
    Sara nodded and blew out a breath. “I wish we didn’t have to do this crap.”
    “Angels might scare us, but hunters scare most other people—including a lot of vampires. Reassure them. Convince them we’re civilized.”
    “What a con.” She grinned.
    Simon grinned back, but it wasn’t his face she wanted to see beside hers in the mirror. “Okay, I’m ready.” This was her first solo outing as Guild-Director-in-training. The transition would be complete by year’s end.
    “Go get ’em.”
     
     
     
    The party didn’t bore her silly. It was the last sign—had she needed one—that she was the right person for the job. Ellie would’ve shot at least five people by now. Sara smiled and parried another nosy question while soaking up the relentless flow of gossip. It was all intelligence. Hunters needed to know a lot of things—like who a vampire might run to, or which individuals might sympathize with the angels to the extent of going vigilante.
    Of course, to all outward appearances, she was simply mingling—just another well-dressed female among dozens of others. Mrs. Abernathy had beamed at her when she arrived. “Probably surprised I didn’t turn up in blood-soaked leathers,” she muttered into her champagne flute during a moment’s respite on the balcony.
    “Would’ve worked for me.”
    The smile that cracked her face was surely idiotic, but she didn’t turn. “Is it the leathers you like or the body in them?”
    “You got me.” Warm breath against her nape, hands on her hips. “But I could get used to this dress.”
    “Hey, eyes up.” She put the champagne flute on the waist-high wall that surrounded the balcony. “No scoping the cleavage.”
    “Can’t help it.” He turned her with a stroking caress.
    And the air rushed out of her.
    “Oh, man.” She leaned back and twirled a finger.
    Of course Deacon didn’t give her a fashion show. He flicked at her