who’s probably already left half a dozen messages on my phone.”
“That should fill out your schedule for the night,” he said.
Still beneath him, I stretched out and snagged my cell phone from my nightstand. No calls or messages, which was unusual, but we were only a few minutes past dusk. Perhaps Catcher hadn’t seen the point in sending a message I wouldn’t have been able to read for hours anyway. “Barring a zombie attack, yes.”
“More likely a human attack than a zombie attack,” Ethan said.
“Potato, potato. Either way, the attacks would be mindless, and they’d be out for blood. Hey,” I said, poking his chest. “What do zombies chant at a riot?”
“Grrarphsnarg?” he asked, in a surprisingly well-done bit of mindless zombie imitating.
“No, but that was really good. Disconcertingly good.”
“I was deceased for a time.”
“True. But anyway, the rioters get all riled up, and they chant: ‘What do we want? Brains! When do we want them? Brains!’” I fell into a wave of appropriately boisterous laughter; Ethan seemed less impressed.
“I truly hope the stipend we pay you doesn’t get spent on the development of jokes like that.”
“It gets spent on smoked meats to supplement this House’s paltry smoked-meats selection.”
“There’s probably a twelve-step program for meat addiction, and I imagine the program starts by admitting you have a problem.”
“Loving smoked meats isn’t a problem. It’s a birthright. Especially for the fanged. All right,” I said, slapping Ethan on the butt. “Off. I need to get dressed, as do you.”
But he didn’t shift the weight of his body; instead, he cupped my face in his hand. “Be careful out there.”
“Yes, Liege,” I dutifully said.
Ethan turned to his side, and I climbed off the bed and headed toward the shower. But I paused in the doorway just long enough to wink. “And do try to keep your hands to yourself.”
His smile widened. “Michael Donovan is an attractive man, Sentinel. But I’ll do my best.”
Ethan Sullivan, registered smart-ass.
* * *
I quickly cleaned, loofa-ed, and shampooed, spending less time in Ethan’s roaring shower than I would have liked. When I was just clean enough, I toweled through my hair, pulled it into a high ponytail—my signature move—and brushed out my bangs.
Ethan dipped into the shower as I walked back into the bedroom to dress. My clothes were easy to assemble—leather pants, shirt, leather jacket, and boots. An ensemble that would protect me against the chill in the air and serve me well in a fight . . . in case that became necessary.
I already wore the gold medal around my neck that identified my name and position and marked me as a member of Cadogan House. I tucked a sleek dagger—a gift from Ethan that bore a coin in the hilt similar to my House medal—into my boot, and grabbed my scabbarded katana from the table near the door. I hadn’t pulled it last night, but I was planning on visiting the Ombuddies tonight, including Catcher. He’d given me the katana and trained me in how to use it, and there was no way I’d carry it near him without ensuring it was clean.
With a whip of sound, I unsheathed it, the light pouring down its honed steel. It looked pristine, but out of caution I pulled a sheet of rice paper from a drawer in the table—the sword-cleaning drawer, as I’d named it—and wiped down the blade. Better safe than sorry, especially when a gruff sorcerer might demand an inspection. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“You’re going to see Catcher, I presume?”
I looked up. Ethan stood in the doorway in unbuttoned slacks, scrubbing a towel through his hair.
It was not an unpleasant sight.
“Yes,” I said, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “I’m going to call him as soon as I grab some blood and breakfast.”
“And Jeff?”
There was a funny little twinge in Ethan’s voice. Surely not jealousy, as he’d sworn he was so sure of our relationship that he wasn’t capable of it. Jeff did, admittedly, have a pretty obvious crush on me. But since he was in some kind of on-again/off-again relationship with a shifter named Fallon—the only sister of the head of the North American Central Pack—I didn’t think Ethan had much to worry about. Even if I weren’t in love with him, and even if I did have a thing for Jeff, I was not about to cross a shifter, much less one in line for the Pack throne. I hoped to squeeze at least a few years out of my