“Under the . . .”

She watched as three sets of enormously large feet appeared in front of her, followed by three faces, two that appeared fascinated, another that was trying not to laugh. Blayne made sure more tears and snot-filled sobs followed.

“Good God, she is under the couch.”

“You frightened me!”

Adams’s body jerked again, and Grigori again slugged his shoulder. “You frightened her.”

“Frightened her,” Bo said, shaking his head sadly.

“I didn’t mean to. I was just asking some questions.” They stood up and she got another view of those feet. Like the Spanish Armada those feet.

“Look,” she heard the police chief bark, “I’m not trying to frighten her—”

“And yet you are.”

“You are,” Bo repeated.

“She’s hiding under my couch . . . sobbing!”

“Sobbing,” Bo repeated, and Blayne had to put her hand over her mouth to stop from laughing.

“How do you live with yourself, Adams?”

“Yeah. How do you?”

“Would you shut up!” Adams snapped, and she knew it was directed at Bo.

“I think you’ve asked her enough questions,” Grigori said, and the feet moved away from her line of sight. A few seconds later, the front door opened and closed, and when the sound of the truck roared to life, the feet returned.

“You think we should leave her under there?”

“We could. She could scare off the dust bunnies.”

“Very funny.” She stuck her hands out. “Help please.”

Big hands grabbed her and carefully pulled her from under the couch, placing her on her feet.

“Are you all right?” Grigori asked.

“I’m fine. Sorry I had to Plan B it.”

“It worked.”

“How worried do I have to be?” she asked.

“Not at all. Adams is just being nosey.”

“And I make him nervous.”

Grigori gave her a small smile. “Wolves make us cranky, but you’re under my protection, Blayne Thorpe. So you have nothing to worry about.” He leaned down a bit, his face close. “But that, little girl, means no knives.”

She shook her head. “No, sir. I, uh, just get a little testy when I’m backed into corners.”

“I’ll keep that in mind and make sure everyone else is clear on it. Fair enough?”

“Yes, sir.”

He stood tall. “Then we have an understanding. And while you’re here”—he gestured to Bo—“you can keep him out of trouble.”

“Me? What did I do?”

Grigori grunted and walked off.

“More like I’ll need to keep you out of trouble,” Bo muttered to himself.

“Not if I can gorunning!” She ran in place, giving him a big cheesy smile. “Exercise is good for the soul. At least that’s what my anger management therapist in tenth grade told me. Wait. Don’t walk away. She gave me great info that helps all hybrids!”

CHAPTER 19

Van stood at the front door of the Queens, New York, house and knocked again. When no one answered, he walked down the front porch steps and briefly debated what to do next. He had the man’s cell phone and home number, but this wasn’t something one told over the phone or left a message about.

Deciding to wait in his limo until Thorpe showed up, Van headed down the front path. But he stopped, turned his head. His ears twitched, and he knew he heard something coming from the back of the small house. He followed the sound until he reached a metal fence. A black man in his fifties, wearing a Harley Davidson sweatshirt and grime-covered jeans worked in the near freezing cold on a cycle that even Van would have to say was gorgeous. Of course, he knew nothing about motorcycles. The Van Holtz Pack liked to get around in more conventional vehicles. Cars, private planes, hovercrafts.

The Magnus Pack, however . . .

And although Ezra Thorpe hadn’t been part of that Pack in a number of years, it seemed his love of motorcycles had not faded.

Van unclipped the metal gate and walked into the backyard. He moved cautiously until he stood behind the wolf; then he waited.

Thorpe, his hands deftly untwisting something from the bike, didn’t turn around when he said, “Explain to me why some stray is in my backyard?”

“Mr. Thorpe. I’m Niles Van Holtz.”

Thorpe looked over his shoulder, his cold, light amber gaze swept Van from his feet to his head. “Yeah. You certainly are.” He focused back on his bike. “So explain to me why some Van Holtz is in my backyard.”

“It’s about your daughter, Mr. Thorpe.”

“What did she do now?”

Van didn’t know why the wolf would ask that question, but he answered him anyway. “Nothing.”

“She must have done something for you to be here. That girl can find trouble in an empty milk carton.”

“Full-humans snatched your daughter last night in Brooklyn.”

Van would admit, he expected a modicum of panic from that sentence. The wolf didn’t even tense up. And he kept fixing his bike.

“What does that have to do with the Van Holtz Pack? I wasn’t aware you let in hybrids.”

They didn’t but Van was working on that.

When Van didn’t respond, Thorpe asked, “So where’s the body? Shouldn’t I be identifying something?”

Van worked hard not to judge people’s actions against his own. His wife was a good example. Many found her cold, but he knew better. So maybe he was just not reading the wolf right.