My words tumble out like debris on a flood-swollen river.

She laughs and says, “Please, Anna. Slow down. You are right. We have no quarrel. Still, we must meet. Are you free tonight?”

My thoughts flash on Gloria. I don’t know where my investigation will take me, but surely I should be free for a few hours this evening.

A few hours? What am I thinking is going to happen when I meet Sandra? Will we need a few hours? To do what?

Get a damned grip. Once more, I slip into brusque mode. “I have work today. I can make some time tonight. Where shall we meet?” An echo of last night. Your place or mine?

“At Avery’s.”

It’s not a suggestion. Immediately, my hackles go up. “No. Not there.”

The laugh again, infectious, bright, but this time with a sharp edge. “I’m afraid it must be Avery’s, Anna. Shall we say nine o’clock?”

My heart is doing that wild tattoo thing against my ribs. Memories of what happened in Avery’s house turn into a black serpent of despair that slithers up my spine. Still, I find myself saying, “All right. Nine o’clock.”

“That’s a good girl.” The purr is back. “Have a good day, Anna.”

She cuts the connection.

“That’s a good girl”? I wouldn’t take that condescending crap from a friend, let alone a stranger. I don’t know what kind of magic this were-woman is working, but before we meet face-to-face, I’m damned sure going to find out.

I stare at the telephone, feeling like a boat loosed from its mooring. What did I agree to? And why in the hell did I? For six months I’ve resisted every effort on Williams’ part to get me back into Avery’s house and in two seconds, Sandra got me to agree to meet her there.

Shit. I have to go see Gloria. First, I have to see someone else. I’m pretty sure I’ll catch him at home. He’s a teacher and he doesn’t drive. Where else would Daniel Frey be this early on a Saturday morning?

DANIEL FREY LIVES IN MISSION VALLEY IN A large, upscale condo development overlooking the city. It’s a gated community and I lean out the car window to ring his unit.

In a moment he answers with an abrupt, “Yes? Who is it?”

“What kind of greeting is that?”

“Anna?” A pause. “You’re here to see me?”

“No. I’m here to see your neighbor. The cute old guy. Of course, I’m here to see you. Are you going to buzz me in or what?”

There’s another pause.

“Frey, what’s going on? Why aren’t you buzzing me in?” No answer. Another pause. Then, finally, the gate swings open.

I punch the accelerator and speed through before he changes his mind. What was that all about? I know I haven’t seen him since we stopped a demon raising last Halloween, but we parted on good terms. I saved his life, for Christ’s sake. Well, technically, an empath saved his life. I saved his ass, though, which allowed the empath to save his life, so that should count for something.

By the time I reach his door, I’ve worked myself into a pretty good sense of indignation. My finger is about to hit the doorbell when the front door swings open. Frey greets me with a frown and steps outside, pulling the door closed behind him.

“This really isn’t a good time, Anna,” he says.

For a minute, I’m too distracted by what he has on to be irritated by the less-than-hospitable greeting. He tries to pull a white terry robe closed, but he’s not quick enough and the robe isn’t big enough to keep me from seeing what he’s wearing underneath.

Frey is a shape-shifter whose other form is panther. His human job is teaching, at my mother’s high school, in fact. It’s how we met. He’s in his forties, tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face that reflects humor and intelligence. He’s a conservative dresser, leaning toward slacks and open-neck polos. So to find him in a pair of baby blue pajamas with black cats stenciled all over them provokes an openmouthed gape.

His mouth forms a thin, rigid line. “What’s wrong?”

Astonishment is giving way to an irresistible urge to laugh. Not the right reaction if I want his help. I swallow hard and struggle to erase the smile off my face.

The effort is not lost on Frey. His frown deepens. “Well?”

“I need to do some research. I figured your library would be the place to start.”

“Research about what?”

“Your cousins.”

“Cousins?”

“The were side of the family.”

The brows draw together. “Shape-shifters are in no way related to weres. They are pack animals, dangerous in and out of their animal bodies.” He looks at me and for the first time, something besides aggravation touches his expression. “Anna, you want nothing to do with weres. Hasn’t Williams ever told you that?”

“No. He had his chance, too. I saw him last night. Anyway, I’ve got no choice in this. I need to know what magic they possess. What spells they can cast. I need the information before tonight.”

He glares at me, a dark intensity shadowing his eyes. “What happens tonight?”

“I have to meet with a were. It’s business.”

“What business could you possibly have with a were?”

Frey and I used to be able to read each other’s thoughts, the way I can with vamps. That changed when I stupidly bit him once, and fed from him, which broke that connection. I see in his expression that he wishes he could crawl into my head right now and pry the information out of me. I also see deep concern and a dawning realization that he may be able to do something to stop me.

“Frey,” I say with a warning shake of my head. “You can’t stop this. Don’t try. No tricks. I know you think you would be protecting me, but believe me when I say if you do anything to try and prevent this, I’ll be angry. More than angry. I’ll be downright pissed. We both know that wouldn’t be good.”

He continues to stare at me, the internal debate obviously still raging. He, too, has the ability to cast spells. I have firsthand knowledge. He cast one on me a while back. Judging from that experience, though, I know he has to be present to invoke it and to keep the object of the spell under its control. Unless he plans to stay with me all day and night, I don’t think he can really do anything to prevent my meeting with Sandra.

Still.

“If you want to help, let me use your books. Find out how to protect myself. Doesn’t that make sense?”

The debate comes to an end. His expression is still anxious but he does swing open the door.

His sartorial taste isn’t the only thing that’s changed.

The last time I was in Frey’s home, the decor was minimalist to say the least—the walls, the carpet, the furniture, all the same color—gray. There were no pictures on the walls, no knickknacks on the tables, not a single book on the smooth, marble block that serves as a coffee table.

That was then.

Today the walls are alive with colorful works of art—bold landscapes done in great slashing strokes of green and yellow and red. The furniture has been rearranged, not symmetrically, but clustered in front of the fireplace. Throw pillows tumble over each other and spill onto the floor. A stack of books and a fan of magazines battle for space with a huge bouquet of violet lilies on that same marble coffee table.

It takes me a minute to absorb it all.

“Wow,” I say, turning to Frey, “when you redecorate, you don’t fool around, do you?”

“But he does fool around with the decorator.”

The voice comes from behind me, startling me into whirling around. I never heard her approach, never sensed the presence. She must have come from outside, the balcony. “What are you, a cat?”

She smiles. “Sorry. I should have made more noise.”

Frey moves around me to stand beside the woman. She’s tall, only an inch or two shorter than his six feet, and willowy thin. She has light brown hair drawn back from her face. Her eyes, blue, cool, are carefully hooded as she looks at me. She’s pretty in an edgy way, velvet over steel.