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  Creed dropped his arm and released her. He watched as she started toward the other end of the diner, then abruptly stopped and turned. By the time she got back to Creed, he was on his feet and cursing the length of time they’d lingered at the table.

  “What’s he doing here?” Chiana’s question came out as a near whisper.

  “More importantly, how did your partner find us?”

  Grabbing her hand, Creed headed toward a door with a sign marking it as an emergency exit only. Mick might look like just another customer to everyone else, but he saw trouble in the man’s hard steps and harder eyes.

  An alarm buzzed when he slammed the red-striped arm across the door. A shout of “Hey, you can’t go out there!” followed almost instantly.

  Creed started for his car at a dead run, Chiana right on his heels. Scenarios raced through his mind during the block-long dash, from bullets plowing into his back to Mick grabbing Chiana and dragging her away with him. The man might be her partner, but Creed was certain what mattered most to Mick were money and a promotion. If he’d figured out her secret, turning Chiana into the agency to study could easily get him both.

  Blessing the mechanic who’d turned his standard engine into a powerhouse under the hood, Creed fired it up, hit the gas and roared out of the shelter’s parking lot.

  “Mick’s pick-up,” Chiana said as they passed the restaurant. “He’s getting in it.”

  This was definitely a complication they didn’t need. If Mick had his engine improved as well, the slim head start they had wouldn’t be enough. They needed a lucky break. Or an unlucky break for Mick, like a flat tire or his engine blowing.

  Catching lights on yellow and ignoring the speed limit, Creed sped to an interstate entrance and rolled into the double-lane traffic between a semi-truck and a delivery van. Chiana turned in her seat beside him, watching for Mick’s truck to come into sight. As the miles slipped by with no sign of him, Creed slowed slightly and started thinking about a Plan B. The biggest question was Chiana’s in the diner—how had Mick found them?

  “Got any tattoos?” he asked.

  Chiana turned to him and said, “One. On my back.”

  “Bingo.”

  “What does that mean, bingo?”

  “It means we’re going to visit another friend of mine.”

  * * * *

  Curses rolled from Mick’s mouth in a loud, steady flow. The bitch had gotten away. She was supposed to be with him, not that bastard Creed. Harrington expected them on the streets in another twenty-four hours, and he did not want to think about what the consequences might be if that didn’t happen.

  He wiped a hand across his forehead, ridding it of sweat. Something was wrong with him. Probably something he ate. Damn food poisoning, probably. That would be his luck.

  Food poisoning would explain the sweats if not the memory gaps and an odd floating sensation, like his body was acting independently of his brain.

  A wave of nausea roiled over him. He slammed his foot on the brake, pulled to the shoulder, fell out of the truck and dropped to his knees. He planted his hands on the gravel as dry heaves wracked his body and welcomed the darkness as he lost consciousness.

  Rhori slid out of the wasted body and resumed the familiar form of a raven. He tipped his head, watching the man through pitch black eyes flecked with gold. This man was no warrior. He was weak and unsuitable as a host. Yet he had knowledge of the woman. Rhori saw no choice but to use him until the mind and body broke.

  He floated to the ground, landing by Mick’s shoulder. Flapping his wings, he cawed softly, willing the man to wake. Odin was waiting, and would not be satisfied until he had the woman before him.

  Longing for his own plane raged through Rhori. He hated this world of hard surfaces and the loud noises belching from the metal boxes on the roads. Green fields that stretched as far as the eye could see in his land bore little resemblance to the patches of grass boxed in by fences. He’d watched people crowd into them, so near to one another and yet oblivious to all but their own wants and needs.

  He cawed louder; Mick didn’t move. Rhori hopped onto the man’s back and pecked hard against his neck. When he was rewarded with a groan, he attacked Mick’s cheek with his beak until blood came. When the man’s eyes flickered open and his hand went to the wetness on his face, Rhori flew up to settle on a wire directly above the groggy man.

  “What the hell?”

  The words were more puzzled than angry. Rhori stared without blinking as the man pushed himself to his hands and knees, then shoved upright with a loud moan and curse words. He waited as his previous host bent over, consumed with dry heaves, and until he staggered to his large metal box and got in.

  When the truck began to move, so did Rhori. The man needed rest, and Rhori was willing to be patient for a time. He wanted that body to be fully revived before he entered him again. This time, he refused to be denied his prize.

  * * * *

  Chiana leaned her head against the seat back, still not sure how her entire life could go to hell so fast. Until this morning, one hit every twenty-four hours of Wil’s magic serum, precisely timed, had kept her Valkyrie side calmed down and her human blood in control. Of course, that was before she’d been located.

  A cold shiver ran through her at the memory of the cold hand against her skin, the whisper against her ear.

  When she’d heard the harsh words, “You’re ours,” she had imagined some hell creature singling her out for execution, a demonic hit man with horns and a tail. That’s before the scent of scorched skin—her scorched skin—hit her, and before the pain of the brand downed her like a punch.

  Her mother’s arm had borne the faintest trace of a similar brand. She’d passed it off as a drunken mistake from her youth. In her mother’s last days, as her life dwindled from her, Cryssa had confessed the marking’s meaning to Chiana. With a pain in her eyes deeper than that wracking her body, she shared their family history with Chiana.

  “We’re almost there,” Creed said, breaking into her thoughts. “It won’t be long.”

  A few minutes later, he yanked the SUV to the side of the highway and grabbed a cell phone from the glove compartment. Turning away, he punched in a number. She caught his end of the quiet conversation and wondered once again how insane she had to be to stay with this man.

  “I need the vault,” she heard, followed by a quick, “I’ve got tagged cargo. Whatever else you have planned, cancel.”

  The conversation didn’t take over 30 seconds. Chiana expected him to toss the phone back into the glove compartment. Instead, he slid out of the SUV. She leaned forward and watched through his open door as he pulled out the memory card and set it on fire. He smashed his booted foot on the phone, just as he had the tracer he’d taken from her bra the day before. After several hard stomps, Creed tossed the phone under the front tire, slid back in and dropped the vehicle into drive.

  Chiana heard the thin crunch of cracking plastic as the tire rolled over the phone, and she reminded herself not to make this man mad. He had an interesting way of disposing of things he didn’t want anymore.

  They rolled fast until the next exit. Creed slammed on the brakes to slide around the curve that took them off the interstate and onto a two-lane state road. A truck stop sat a few hundred yards away. Creed pulled into the paved lot and drove around the large, low building. He circled the idling semis, stopping at a building at the rear. Basically a box with aluminum siding, it boasted a large sign on the front that said CB repair.

  Creed parked in the shadow next to the building. Turning off the engine, he pocketed the keys and said, “Let’s go.”

  Chiana slid out and started toward the building.

  “There.” Creed pointed toward a you-drive van a few yards away. He was in full alert mode, she realized, stiff with the same tension as a junkyard dog on a stormy night.

  A man stepped out from behind the truck as they approached. The glare of the fuel center’s lights barely reached this fa
r back, so Chiana caught only a general impression of the man. Tall, skinny, cowboy hat and full beard. The snap of his heels came from boots, she was certain. When he spoke, she caught a Texas drawl that fit that supposition.

  “Hey, man,” came the twangy greeting. “We rolling or standing still?”

  “Depends,” Creed said. “You got that thing upholstered?”

  The man nodded. “Even Superman couldn’t see into this baby, it’s got so much lead lining it.”

  “Good enough.”

  Chiana lagged behind, wondering if she should get smart and make a run for it. Before she could decide, Creed stepped back and took her hand, as if he’d sensed her uncertainty. A flicker of electricity raced up her arm with that touch. She was certain he felt it too, because he held her hand loosely and dropped his grip as soon as they reached the back of the truck.

  “Come on in,” the man invited, unlatching the back doors and flipping one open. Blocked by the door, Creed and the stranger, Chiana stepped inside.

  It wasn’t what she expected. What should have been empty space looked like a back-alley doctor’s office. A long steel counter with drawers underneath took up one wall, and a sink was nestled in a corner. A rolling stool sat at the head of a sheet-covered metal cot, and a high-backed chair filled another corner. A small table next to the recliner held a gooseneck lamp; a magazine rack sat on the other side of the chair.

  The most unusual aspect was the thick, vinyl covering on floor, walls and ceiling, reminiscent of the gym mats Chiana remembered from her phys ed days. The cowboy reached up, rapped near the top of the back wall and said, “See? Top security.”

  Creed nodded and stomped his foot on the floor of the truck bed. His reward was a hollow thud.

  “I told you, man. Lead overcoat.”

  He turned toward Chiana and, with a courteous bow, said, “Call me Tex. It’s not my name, but it’s a helluva lot better than what my daddy stuck me with. You hungry? Thirsty?”

  “I’m good.” Her appetite had been lost to the whorl of fear and dread rising inside her.

  “Okay then.” Tex leaned against the counter. “What can I do for you today?”

  “Ask him.” Chiana nodded toward Creed, who watched with narrowed eyes. He kept his gaze on her as he moved closer to Tex and spoke too softly for Chiana to hear. His actions grated. The high-handed son of a bitch had no right to ignore her. She was off for two days. She should be snuggled down on her own couch with a movie and a delivery pizza, not stuck in the middle of Creed’s secret agent fantasy.

  Or maybe it was a kidnap fantasy. He’d sent Mick away, after all. Wil, too. For all she knew those drawers held weird-ass bondage gear. Her anger simmered hotter. If those two guys thought she was going to lie down like a sacrificial lamb…

  “Hey, asshole.”

  She smiled as Creed’s eyes widened. She always could get a man’s attention.

  “We got a problem here?” Tex asked.

  Creed studied the woman across from him. Something was making her angry. Maybe the confinement or the uncertainty of the whole situation. Her face was tight, her stance aggressive. Her fingers twitched like she would love to take a swing at someone or something.

  “No problem,” he said, forcing himself to stay calm. It was time to find out if that spell was more than a bunch of words.

  A few long steps closed the space between them. Chiana’s attention stayed on him, although she flinched when he slung an arm around her shoulders. Creed felt her body slump as the fight went out of her. He let out a long breath of relief. The relief became something else as Chiana turned and curled against him, her breasts tight against his chest, slipping her thigh between his legs.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” she whispered, her hand moving along his jaw. The tone was that of an apologetic lover, her words as velvet as her touch. Creed’s pulse grew faster and he began to feel that now-familiar ache of need.

  “Hmmmm.” Tex cleared his throat.

  “Sorry, man.” Creed slid away from Chiana, who made a small noise of protest. As he put distance between them and the need to possess her lessened, he faced a hard reality.

  The spell may have worked too well. Chiana couldn’t hurt him, which was good. The downside was that the spell also guaranteed he was the only man she was attracted to. That, combined with her heightened pheromones or whatever the hell it was, might be even more dangerous for them both.

  “Show the man your tattoo,” he ordered. “The one at the top of your butt.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ll drop my drawers right here.”

  Tex stepped closer, offering a smile Creed suspected worked on many a woman.

  “You got that tattoo right after you joined the agency, huh?”

  Chiana nodded.

  “I’ll bet you were pretty buzzed, drinking steady after a bad night. Your partner or somebody else from work suggested it, and you were in the mood for a little body art.”

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “You’d be surprised what I know. You’ll probably also be surprised to learn that thanks to your tat, the agency can find you whenever they want.”

  Chiana pulled down the back of her pants and turned her head to peer at the tribal tattoo she could barely see.

  “You’re crazy,” she said, still looking. “The tracer was in my bra.”

  Tex laughed. “The agency believes in overkill. You should know that by now.”

  Chiana pulled her pants back in place and shook her head. “A little proof would be nice.”

  Tex nodded at Creed, who pulled off his shirt and turned his back to her.

  “See that?” Tex ran a finger across the thunderbird whose wings arched from shoulder to shoulder. “His tracer is right there, in the feathers at the neck. The only difference between yours and his is that that only activates when he’s dead.

  “I’m a consultant for agents who value their privacy. I can have that out in a couple of minutes. Just say the word.”

  Chiana buried her hands in her hair. This was crazy. No way could a stranger know she had gotten drunk in Atlantic City with a couple of fellow agents and stupidly agreed to get a tattoo. They’d walked down the street and into the first tattoo parlor they’d seen. It couldn’t have been a set-up.

  Yes, it could, whispered a voice inside her. She’d never been to Atlantic City before; they had. She’d had a lot more to drink than any of them, and they made her feel as if that tattoo was a rite of passage.

  “Thanks, but I’ll take my chances,” she said, nervous about letting a stranger even touch her there, let alone cut on her.

  Creed shook his head.

  “Tex takes it out.”

  Chiana stiffened.

  “No way. My body, my choice. That’s what he said.”

  Tex patted the cot and said, “It’s painless. You lay down; I put in a local anesthetic and slip the tracer out with the smallest of incisions. A stitch, a Band-Aid and you’re good to go.”

  The thought of even such a slight procedure gave Chiana the willies. She’d been dead-ass drunk when she got the tattoo. She’d like to be even drunker now.

  “Got any whiskey?” Never hurt to ask.

  Tex grinned. “I’ve got a bottle of Kentucky bourbon, wax seal intact. That do?”

  She nodded. He opened the bottle and grabbed a plastic tumbler. Ignoring him, Chiana grabbed the bottle and tipped it to her mouth. She took a long drink, cringing at the burn as it slid down her throat. Lowering the bottle, she wiped her lips and sighed.

  “Ready?” Tex asked.

  Holding up a finger in the universal symbol for wait, she took another swig, then one more. When the hot buzz of the liquor hit her stomach, she handed the bottle to Creed, slid her pants to mid-thigh and lay on the cot, stomach-down.

  “Ready when you are,” she said, her words slurring softly.

  She kept her eyes on Creed, who stood with crossed arms watching the other man slide a needle into her skin. As it took effect, Tex unfolded a
n alcohol wipe and cleaned the area around the tattoo before sliding a latex-gloved finger across the colorful design. When he was satisfied he’d found the tracer, he took a small scalpel from a drawer, sterilized it with a new alcohol pad and made a small cut in the heart of the tattoo.

  Eyes closed, head to the side, Chiana didn’t react. She stayed still as Tex pulled out a tiny square of plastic-encased wires. She didn’t move until Tex pulled a stitch through and said, “All done.”

  Chiana slid off the table, pulled up her pants and fastened them.

  “Doing okay?” Tex asked. He offered the small transmitter for her inspection, holding it with a pair of surgical tweezers. Chiana tipped her head and studied it.

  “So I’ve been wearing this thing for five years now.”

  “It happens,” Tex replied. “Most people die with ‘em still stuck beneath their skin, never aware Big Brother is keeping tabs on them.”

  “Hey, give credit where it’s due,” Creed interrupted. “Even the federal government doesn’t have anything this sophisticated.”

  “Good point.” Tex placed the electronic device on a flat stone, fired up a butane torch and smiled. “Say bye-bye.”

  Two minutes later, the transmitter was a black, melted mass in the middle of the stone; the air inside the truck reeked of burnt wires and scorched plastic. Chiana’s nose prickled, and her throat scratched from the minute particles lingering in the air.

  Tex proved to be more gregarious than Creed. He answered Chiana’s questions as he stood at the small sink, washing his hands and cleaning scalpel and tweezers.

  “Take these out often?”

  She tried to keep the question casual. If implanting bugs was a routine practice, good enough. If she’d been singled out, she might give in to the thin layer of frustration and simmering anger that lay beneath the surface.

  “Often enough.” Tex dried his hands and turned to her. “Usually, it’s after someone walks away from the agency, or they get thrown out for pushing things too far.”

  Chiana still had a dozen questions she was dying to ask when Creed interrupted the conversation with a simple, “Send her a postcard, buddy, we’ve got to roll.”