“Number one hundred eighty-four, please join your partner.”

I scanned the floor again, looking for James. If I didn’t find him in the next few seconds, I’d be disqualified by default. I couldn’t afford to lose the entry fee. More importantly, I couldn’t afford to lose the shot at the regional competition. I needed that title.

Still no James. I took a step backward, anticipating the instruction to leave the floor, and stopped as my shoulders bumped up against a man’s chest. “James,” I sighed, utterly relieved. My arms automatically raised to form the proper frame as I turned.

“If you like,” Dominic replied, catching my right hand and pulling me into a tango stance. I gaped at him, but there was no time to argue. The music was already starting. Instinct was the only thing that saved me, relaxing my shoulders as my back straightened, pulling me into the correct posture.

With no more fanfare than that, the dance began.

The Argentine tango isn’t as devoted to creating a frame between dancers as most of the structured forms; it’s hard to look like you’re ironing the wrinkles out of the front of your dress with your partner’s chest if you’re going to be all fussy about keeping the appropriate distance. Dominic was doing a passable standard tango, and I let him be the one to hold the structure of the dance, sliding closer in what would hopefully look like a practiced dance step as I hissed in his ear, “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” he replied, and pushed me into a half-turn before yanking me back. He definitely wasn’t going to win me any points in technical style if he kept flinging me around like that. At least he looked the part, in skintight black jeans that were probably reinforced with Kevlar linings, a button-up red silk shirt, and a black half-duster that had to be murder in the heat, but allowed him to cut a dramatic silhouette, as well as hiding a hell of a lot more weapons than my own frothy confection of a costume. It was a step up from his generic monster-hunter trench coat. “This seemed like the best way to catch up.”

“You could have called,” I snapped. A little too loudly—one of the neighboring couples glanced in our direction, forcing me to move in even closer as I stage-whispered, “You had my number. Now where the hell is my partner?”

“The ‘gentleman’ with whom you were prepared to perform this parody of dance is currently indisposed.” The way he stressed the word “gentleman” made it clear he knew James wasn’t human.

I jerked back and stared at him, barely stopping the motion from turning graceless. “Did you kill my partner?” My voice came out steady and calm. That was due to the fact that my mind was otherwise occupied with trying to figure out how quickly I could get to my concealed weapons.

“Kill? No. I assumed it would upset you, and endanger our working relationship.” Dominic looked down his nose at me. No small task while we were spinning around the dance floor. “He’ll wake up in an hour or so.”

There was no possible way to salvage the competition. Even bribing the judges and claiming James had suffered some sort of unexpected medical emergency (one which happened to mysteriously clear up in time for us to join the final group) wouldn’t do it after I’d shown up on the floor with another man. It was going to look like we’d tried to pull a bait and switch. Worst of all, it hadn’t even resulted in my appearing with a better partner. Dominic was a decent tango dancer—that was clear from his posture and footwork—but he’d just as clearly never danced the Argentine tango in his life. He stepped mechanically through his paces while I flung myself around him, trying to pretend we were doing the same dance. It might have passed muster in a social situation, but here? It was suicide.

“You could have called,” I hissed again. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“That I should refuse the discussion of serious business matters over an unsecured phone line? I’m sure I don’t know, but I hope it’s never corrected.”

“That’s it,” I snarled. I pulled back and mimicked the beginning of a partner-assisted spin before shouting in mock-pain and dropping down to clutch at my left ankle. Looks were cast in our direction by the other dancers, some sympathetic, some openly and maliciously pleased. One less couple in the competition meant one step closer to victory. Cold math, but as Sarah was so fond of telling me, numbers don’t lie. Everything else does, but numbers? Never.

Dominic stared at me, actually looking concerned as he stooped to kneel on the floor. “Have you twisted it? Those shoes you’re wearing—”

“Are appropriate for the occasion,” I hissed. “Now help me out of here.”

Taking help, even fake help, from a member of the Covenant rankled, but it was necessary if I wanted my “injury” to seem realistic. Leaning heavily on the arm he offered for support, I limped out of the tango competition with my head held high and entirely real tears shining in my eyes.

So much for making it to Regionals.

The nature of my disguise meant I couldn’t go from Valerie to Verity in the dance hall bathroom. I limped my way back to the coat check, where I reclaimed my duffel bag and coat. Dominic trailed behind me, looking puzzled. His look of puzzlement grew deeper when I stomped out of the dance hall, limp fading with every step I took away from the doors.

“You were faking?” he demanded.

“You couldn’t pick up a damn phone?”

“How could you be faking?”

“You thought coldcocking my partner and stuffing him—where did you stuff him?”

Dominic glanced away. “A storage closet.”

“Right. You thought coldcocking my partner and stuffing him into a storage closet before crashing my dance competition was less risky than picking up a damn phone and saying, ‘hey, want to talk to you about all the dead stuff in the city’? You’re crazy!” I started walking faster. “Certifiably crazy. And you owe me a refund on my entry fee, in addition to the five hundred for keeping my shirt on last night.”

“My apologies if I thought the threat we may be facing was more important than your little diversions.”

Something inside of me snapped. I’d put up with sidelong looks and subtly disapproving comments from my family for years. Getting outright disdain from a member of the Covenant of St. George was the last straw. I wheeled on him, jabbing a finger straight at the center of his chest. “Look, asshole, dancing is not a ‘little diversion.’ It’s my life, you got that? You had no right to track me down like this, and you really had no right to intrude. You don’t approve of my life? Well, screw you. At least I have one.”