"So," I said as I picked at my plate, "the gist is that Aratron thinks someone-some group-has broken the barrier, by either in-depth scientific experimentation or plain old dumb luck."

"You mean they've hit on a form of human magic that works."

I nodded. He set down his wineglass and stared at the blank wall behind me, his dark eyes equally blank, shutters pulled as he thought.

After a few moments, he said, "I'm not the best person to investigate this. Man-killing werewolves I understand. Humans killing with magic? I barely know where to begin."

A chill settled in the pit of my stomach. "You'd rather not help, then."

"Of course I want to help." His knee brushed my leg. "What I'm saying is that I'm in over my head." A twist of a smile. "And it's not a place I'm accustomed to being. I'm the Alpha. I lead in full confidence." The smile sparked in his eyes. "Usually. But with this, I should do what any good leader does-take it to an expert. But to whom? It's a matter that might concern all the races. Where should that go?"

"To the interracial council. Which, unfortunately, is us."

"Sad, isn't it? There should be some…" He waved his hand.

"Body of elders? Wise old men and women who do nothing but send out troops of highly trained investigators to protect the interests of the supernatural world?"

"Instead they get us. Part-time volunteers, untrained, unbudgeted and usually flying by the seat of our pants."

"It's nice to know I'm not the only one on the council who doesn't always feel up to the job."

"Did you think the rest of us do? In werewolf matters, yes, I am an expert. In necromancy, you are an expert-"

"I wouldn't say-"

"You've never let us down. If you don't know the answers, you find them. That's all we ask. Paige? Magic is her specialty and, between her and Lucas, they do just fine-remarkably fine, given their youth. So if this is magic, does it go to them? They know little or nothing of human magic. So who is the expert?"

"I guess it's about to be us. Self-taught. With a huge learning curve looming in front of us."

AFTER DINNER we walked for a couple of city blocks, then Jeremy headed into a park. Trust a werewolf to find green space anywhere.

A park probably isn't the safest place to be after dark in L.A. but Jeremy didn't hesitate. For him, safety was rarely a concern. I envied him that-and Elena-able to go anywhere after dark, walk into deserted parking lots, cut through alleys, knowing that any rapist or mugger who thought that pretty blond looked like an easy mark was in for a shock… maybe his last.

We passed a couple of street thugs, not yet old enough to be out of high school, hidden in the shadows of a willow. Jeremy put his arm around my waist. I couldn't help noticing how he drew me a little closer, so his hip brushed mine, or how his hand gripped my waist, pulling me into his circle of protection.

He didn't speed up or slow down, but met the leader's gaze full on, dipped his chin and murmured a greeting. They let us pass.

We'd gone a few more yards when another figure appeared on the path. A man, shoulders hunched, dressed in black, face hidden in the shadow of his hood. I glanced at Jeremy, but his gaze was fixed on a point past the man, his face as relaxed as the arm around my waist. A single unarmed assailant doesn't pose much risk for a werewolf. But as confident as Jeremy is, he's never cocky, which meant he couldn't see him.

Sure enough, as we drew closer, the man lifted his head, his face pale under the dark hood, and stared at me, confused. He knew the glow he saw around me meant something, and was racking his brain to remember what it was.

Not slowing, I looked up at Jeremy. "Did I tell you I talked to Paige? About the children?"

"No, what did she say?"

The man stopped. "Hey, aren't you-?"

"She's going to look into it and ask around. We should run it by Robert too, see whether he knows anything."

The man had gone quiet, staring after me. I kept walking and talking. After a moment, he mumbled something under his breath and continued on his way, convinced that either he was mistaken, or I wasn't strong enough to hear or see him. I sighed-part relief, part regret, as always.

WE STOPPED on a slope down to a small, manmade lake. Downwind, as always, so Jeremy could smell anyone approaching from behind. We sat on the grass. I hadn't done that in… well, probably not since I was old enough to worry about walking around with grass stains on my rear. Jeremy offered to put down his jacket for me, but I refused, insisting my pants were old and the night was cool. Neither was true, but I wanted to just kick off my shoes, settle in the grass beside him and, if I got dirty, laugh about it.

I started talking, as usual. It takes awhile to draw Jeremy out if the topic is anything but business. That used to discourage me, but Elena says he's like that with everyone-so good at getting people to talk about themselves that they rarely realize he never offers anything in return.

Even when he does share, none of his stories are about himself, but when he talks of his family or his Pack, he's always there, in the background. So I get my insights that way. Sometimes, in talking of Clay as a child or the twins, he'll make a brief segue into his own childhood, enough for me to know it hadn't been a pleasant one. That glimpse behind the shutters meant more to me than he could imagine.

I asked him about the twins' birthday and he told me about Elena's misadventures with the baking, how she'd tried to sneak the failed cake outside for the birds, but Clay, smelling food, had rescued it and shared it with the twins, reasoning that they needed to get accustomed to bad food in case Jeremy ever cooked them dinner. I watched him tell the story, his face animated, relating even the jibe at his cooking with a wry smile.

We sat there for over an hour, just talking. A cool wind blew off the water, bringing a fine mist as it slid over us and into the trees, rustling the leaves, then departed with a sigh. Beneath my fingers, the grass was growing damp. Jeremy's legs were outstretched, mine bent, our shoulders brushing when we moved.

"Thanks for tonight," I said. "For taking me out. You have no idea how nice it is to eat without a dead man hanging over the table."

His brows shot up and I explained. "But on the upside, I'm pretty much guaranteed to lose those few pounds my stylist keeps nagging about."

He shook his head. "I don't know how you do it, Jaime."

"Don't have much choice."

"Yes, you do. You could hide from it. Take your meals elsewhere and make some excuse to the others. But you never do. You'll sit there, smile and chat-with a ghost hanging a foot from your nose- and no one will ever be the wiser."

"It's a residual, not a ghost. And it's more like two feet."

He smiled and shifted, moving the arm stretched behind me to my back. His hand went to my waist, his face turning, lips a scant inch from mine, the look in his dark eyes sending a shiver through me.

I waited through five long heartbeats, but he didn't move, neither coming toward me nor pulling back. It was up to me.

The kiss started firm yet gentle, sweet yet strong, everything I'd expected from Jeremy. Then, as I pressed against him, an edge crept into it, an urgency and a passion that maybe… wasn't quite what I'd expected. Like being hit with a blast of hot air when I was anticipating a gentle breeze. I threw myself into it like someone who's been plucked from an icy river, lapping up the heat.

After a several intense minutes, he pulled back.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That wasn't-"

"You don't need to apologize. I started it."

"Ah, yes, right."

He sat there for a moment, hair hanging forward, then gave it an impatient brush back. I resisted the urge to put my arms around his neck and bury myself in another kiss. His expression told me he wouldn't argue, but that this wasn't a step he was entirely ready to take.