He frowned. “I do need one thing from you, before we go in.”

“What?” Her eyes were sharp as they assessed him. What had made him think he’d be able to keep a secret from her? But he had to try. Because if she knew what he suspected he was turning into, whatever they had might be over before it even began.

O’Shea looked far too serious, though I suppose he was probably worried about fighting a school of Trolls. Yes, like fish. His eyes seemed to darken even more, if that was possible, then he leaned over and planted his lips on mine, stealing any thoughts I would have of pulling back with his hand on the back of my neck.

The kiss was hot, like he’d lit a match inside of me next to a canteen of diesel fuel. I grabbed a hold of him, tasting his lips, fingers digging into his hair. I think he groaned, but I can’t be sure it wasn’t me.

Finally, after what was only moments but felt like an hour, I pulled back, my skin flushed through and through.

O’Shea’s eyes were dazed and Alex was grumbling, muttering about stupid kissing boss man.

“Come on,” the agent said, stepping out of the SUV. “Let’s go.”

I cleared my throat, and lightly touched my lips. What the hell? My blood was pounding, not unpleasantly, as I started out after him. I suppose if one was going to kick the bucket, one last kiss was in order.

Walking toward the tattoo shop, I checked my weapons, fingertips brushing against sword butts and my whip handle. Focusing on the kid, I let my Tracking ability guide me to where Ricky lay unconscious. More than that, I blocked what my head was already deeming ‘O’Shea’s Magic Kisses’, as if he were a delectable concoction from the local bakery. Shit.

I was flushed with warmth and I strode toward the front door of the shop. There were no lights on inside. Alex romped and played in the snow beside me, burying his face and then lifting his head so I could see only his eyes.

“This is serious, no playing now,” I said, and pulled one sword out from my back sheath. The copper and silver handle was cool against my skin. O’Shea slipped up beside me.

“Through the back?”

I nodded and we sidled our way around the building, sticking close to the old brick wall that caught at our clothes like scrubby little fingernails. Alex sort of listened. Beside us, he did an army crawl, but his ass and tail were sticking straight up in the air like a flag.

O’Shea lifted an eyebrow, and I shrugged. What could I say? Nothing would ever change the werewolf from what he was. Literally.

We reached the back door with no problems. I put my hand on it, turning the knob, but didn’t open the door. It was unlocked. Sloppy work, but not surprising; I mean, shit, it was a Troll, not a freaking witch or Shaman.

O’Shea leaned close to me. “What can we expect, going in?”

Rolling my shoulders, I took a deep breath, the heat from his kiss still singing in my veins. “He’ll try to use the kid against us.”

“And?”

“We’ll probably have to put our weapons down and do this bare-handed. And there will be more than just the one-eyed a**hole.” I was already seeing the fight in my head, trying to work out the best way to tackle the creep. It could be done.

“O’Shea,” he looked over at me.

“Trolls, are tough, as in fighting even when their asses are on fire, but are stupid as a supernatural come.”

“So kill ‘em fast?”

“You got it.”

Alex, ass still straight up in the air, sniffed the bottom of the door, lips rippling back over his teeth. His hackles rose, the hair along his spine standing straight up and a low growl beginning in the back of his throat.

I put a hand on his shoulders. “Easy, buddy.”

“Bad Troll.” He snapped out, teeth chattering. “No more meanie.”

O’Shea shifted his weight. “In or out, we’ve got to move.”

He was right.

“Alex, go back and knock on the front door. Hard. Then run back here. Got it?”

He sat up on his haunches, gave me a salute and galloped off, feet skidding in the snow as he rounded the corner.

Making eye contact with O’Shea, I didn’t have to tell him anything. We heard the reverberation of Alex’s knocking on the door; waiting ten seconds, we then opened the door and slid into the dim interior of the back room. Dirty linoleum floor, paint peeling off the walls, one flickering bulb overhead. Damn, it was like we’d walked into a true-to-life horror flick. The back room fed into a middle section that looked like a divider between renovations—un-sanded rough-hewn plywood—bled into the front portion of the shop, which was tiled and somewhat clean. At least, compared to the rest of the place.

O’Shea took the right side. I took the left; both of us with weapons out—swords to be exact. I slid along the wall, listening for the sound of a child. I could feel Ricky in my head, the thrum of his life strong and steady. He was still unconscious, a blessing if I—we—could get him out of here before he woke up. The scent of bleach wafted past my nose and then the scent of shit. Damn. I turned my head just enough to see O’Shea frown, his nose wrinkling.

Within moments, we’d made our way to the front of the tattoo parlour, checking every crevice, but the place was empty.

I stood in the center of the room, breathing shallowly. Gods be damned, this place reeked of Trolls. My head spun. Trolls. Shit, if there really was more than one, we were going to have a bloody mess on our hands. Again, I wished we had run the bastard through when we’d dumped him on the side of the road. He’d deserved it—he’d killed a cop—but we’d been in a hurry. A terrible excuse for what was becoming a mistake that could cost more lives.

The soft click of nails on the linoleum brought my head around. Alex was tiptoeing in, his nose wrinkled up as I wished I could do too, to block the smell.

“Fuck, this shit is stinky.” He waved a claw in front of his nose.

O’Shea’s eyebrows climbed. “I think that’s the most complete sentence I’ve ever heard him say.”

Ignoring them both, I reached for Ricky, let my senses trace him. Eyes half-closed, I followed the feel of him to the middle section, the piece that hadn’t been finished. Standing over it, I laid my hands on the wood, felt the thrum of energy still there. A minor spell, one so small you wouldn’t notice it unless you were looking hard. A spell that disrupted under my touch, my Immunity pulling it apart. Blind Bat Trolls didn’t carry magic; they had to be getting help from someone else. We were in trouble.

I waved Alex closer. “Can you fit your claws into the edge here?” There was a small lip on the joint between the two walls, invisible until you slid your hand over it. Alex sniffed it, slid his claws along the edge, working them until they were underneath. With a violent jerk, he yanked the whole panel off with a shriek of wood and splinters bursting out everywhere.

O’Shea went to the opening first. “Are we crossing the Veil?”

“No, this was hidden by a small spell. Nothing major.” The opening was dark and barely wide enough for a Troll’s body, but there was plenty of room for us. I led the way, blade in front of me.

The flick of a light behind me spun me around. I clamped my hand over the flashlight O’Shea had produced, keeping my voice as low as I could. “No light.”

His voice was controlled, but I could hear the anger in it. “We can’t help him if we break our necks.”

“We can’t help him if we get caught before we get to him,” I said, peering ahead into the dim interior.

“You don’t think they heard the werewolf ripping off their front door?”

I snatched the flashlight from him, jammed it in my pocket. Thinks he knows everything. Stupid man. I didn’t want to admit he was probably right.

Of course, timing was everything. There was a roar from behind us, and what light we had from the murky shop was blocked by a Troll’s body as he squeezed into the opening we’d just passed through. I flicked the flashlight on and pointed it straight at the beast’s eyes, shocking it with the sudden light. The Troll—its flapping, greasy puke green skin shaking with anger—roared again, reaching blindly for us, eyes averted.

“You’re up,” I yelled at O’Shea.

The agent spun, slicing through the Troll’s belly, dodging the flailing hands with ease. Troll guts spilled out onto the ground, neon blue and green, the blood a pale orange that glowed under the light. The beast groaned, grabbing at its stomach in vain.

“The boy is dead,” he spluttered out, dropping to his knees, blood dripping from his grinning lips. O’Shea didn’t waste any more time. A second slice of his blade and the Troll’s head rolled from his shoulders, face stuck in a macabre grin.

“Okay, lights on, let’s go,” I said.

“He lied?”

“Yes, they always lie.” Okay, maybe not always, but for the most part, Trolls were liars.

But, like every rule, there was an exception. One big f**king, messed up exception.

18

We wove our way through the timbers of the building, the path obvious with the stink and Troll shit littering the way. Alex did his best to avoid stepping in it, as did we, but the stinking piles were everywhere, smeared like they’d been skating in it for fun. Disgusting creatures.

It took us ten minutes to make our way through the building before we were faced with a decision. The pathway branched, one taking us to the right, the other taking us to a hole in the ground that was surrounded with bones, shit, and a flapping material that looked like an old, partially shredded bed sheet.

“Let me guess, the hole,” O’Shea asked, though it wasn’t really a question. Ricky was close, and when I leaned over the hole, the sensation of being right on top of him was overwhelming.

“You guessed it,” I muttered. “Why is it always the nasty places? Just once, I’d like to end up finding a kid somewhere clean, somewhere not covered in shit or blood.”

The three of us peered down into the darkness. I handed the flashlight back to O’Shea. “Here.”