She tore after him. Karl's footsteps pounded behind them. Hope kept her lead but as quick as she was, the boy was faster. He made it through the propped-open rear exit and slammed it shut before she got there.

Hope yanked on the door handle. Locked. She was fumbling with Robyn's keys when Karl caught her hand.

He whispered, "Let him go," but his vibes screamed a very different message, the wolf gnashing its teeth as its prey escaped.

Karl's gaze moved to the parking lot, reminding her – and himself – of the police stakeout. They couldn't afford to be seen hanging around, much less be caught racing after the boy.

"We scared the crap out of him," she whispered. "He won't be coming back."

Karl nodded. Whether he believed that or not, it got them away from that door. One last lingering look, and they headed for the car.

COLM

Colm huddled under the stairs, shaking so hard he thought he was going to throw up.

He'd been so busy watching the woman he'd forgotten all about the man. It had only been a fluke – or survival instinct – that sent him a vision flash of the man crouched on the wall. He could still see him jumping, his face hard and eyes gleaming, lips pulled back. Even in memory that look made Colm's bladder twitch. In real life, it had made him turn tail and run.

He'd seen the man twist in midflight, yet still hit the ground running. An eight-foot wall and he'd jumped down effortlessly. No hesitation, no bracing for a fall.

He wasn't human. That look on his face hadn't been human.

He remembered the woman in the hall, turning. The man had asked if she'd sensed something.

Sensed how? Magic? Was she a witch? The man some kind of half-demon?

But why would supernaturals be in Robyn Peltier's apartment?

Maybe because they were looking for the same thing he was: Robyn Peltier. Or the photograph.

What if that photo wasn't an accident? Irving Nast had tricked Adele into that meeting. Maybe he'd had Portia Kane take the picture to blackmail Adele into working for the Cabal. Before Nast could get the photo, Adele had stolen the cell phone. So now these two supernaturals had to retrieve a copy from Robyn Peltier.

So Portia Kane had been a supernatural secret agent? That sounded crazy. But what if the Cabals knew about the kumpania and what they did for a living? Wouldn't a celebrity supernatural be the perfect lure to draw them out?

The Cabals were devious and endlessly resourceful. They'd created an interracial council, supposedly to protect supernaturals, but if you ran to them, you'd be turned right back over to the Cabals. They set up one of their own Cabal sons – Lucas Cortez – as a so-called crusader, but if you ran to him, again, you'd end up back in the hands of the Cabal. You could never underestimate them, never be too paranoid. That's the lesson the phuri had drilled into Colm's head from birth.

But if Portia Kane had taken the photo for the Cabal, why not just send it to them right away? Why mail it to Robyn Peltier?

As he calmed down, he was ashamed of himself for panicking. That couple weren't supernaturals. So he'd seen a man jump from an eight-foot wall. Big deal. Stuntmen did it all the time. This was L.A.

He was making up elaborate stories to excuse the simple truth that he'd screwed up. How he would have loved to return to Adele, say he'd followed a suspicious couple and found Robyn Peltier. He imagined how she'd react to that, the look in her eyes, the taste of her kiss, her voice murmuring in his ear, "How can I ever repay you?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the fantasy back. He'd still find Robyn Peltier for Adele. He wouldn't mention the couple to her. No need to expose his cowardice. She'd sent him to retrieve a personal item from the apartment and he would, then he'd use it to find Peltier. His powers might be immature, but surely he could boost them for a reward he wanted badly enough.

Since puberty the elders had been preparing him for his eventual role, teaching him all the skills he'd need as a contributing member of the kumpania. Lock picking had come early. When you first got an assignment, you'd need to steal personal items to make a connection. After that, getting a valuable celebrity shot sometimes meant being someplace you weren't supposed to be. Being able to open locked doors and disarm alarms came in very handy.

As he approached the door, he slid the pick into his hand, then set to work.

There was something not quite right with the locking mechanism. As his frustration mounted, he forgot the second part of any break-in job: keeping a constant watch on his surroundings. He didn't hear the whoosh of the elevator doors until they were closing.

"Can I help you, son?"

A uniformed officer started toward him, shoulders squaring. Colm closed his fingers over the pick and pushed it up his sleeve.

"I was looking for Miss Peltier. She bought some chocolate almonds from me for band."

The officer stopped in front of him. "Band?"

"A band trip. I go to LACHSA." When the officer looked confused, he said, "Los Angeles County High School of the Arts." A school he could claim, no matter what part of the city he was in. "I was going to tell her the almonds will be late."

"You live in the building?"

Colm nodded. "With my mom. Number 304."

The lies came effortlessly. More lessons taught from birth. No matter how innocent the question, lie.

The officer seemed to consider taking him down to 304 and Colm was mentally preparing his excuse and escape plan, but after a moment, the officer asked, "When's the last time you saw Ms. Peltier?"

"Last Tues – no, Wednesday. I was waiting out front for my cab to school."

The officer reached into his pocket and handed Colm a card. "If you see her again, give me a call."

"Is something wrong?"

"We just need to talk to her."

Colm read the card slowly, hoping the officer would walk away. But he just stood there, waiting for Colm to leave.

After a moment, he did.

Once again, Colm stood in the first-floor stairwell. He'd tried to remotely watch the officer, so he could sneak back up, but he was so nervous he couldn't concentrate. Even clutching the officer's card didn't help.

There was no way he was getting into that apartment now. He couldn't talk his way out of being caught up there a second time.

He wished he could call Adele, but she'd been summoned into a conference with the phuri. With Portia Kane dead, they'd waste no time assigning her a new subject. They always had several on backup. Everyone needed to pull his weight.