Azriel caught my hand and tugged me into his arms. "While I am alive, you will remain so. I promise you that, if nothing else."
I melted into his embrace and listened to the strong, steady beat of his heart. "If death is my fate, even you cannot change that."
He didn't answer, and my stomach dropped. I looked up quickly and caught the flash of . . . something dark—perhaps even a little guilt—in his eyes. Then it was gone, and all that remained was tenderness.
"Can you?" I asked, frowning.
"That is a question I hope I will never be forced to answer," he said. Which wasn't exactly an answer, but I knew him well enough now to understand it was all I was about to get. "Now, about this business of mad, crazy lovemaking. I'm not sure I understand the concept."
I smiled. "Then take me home and I'll show you."
He did, and I did.
And it was glorious.
Chapter 10
The Falcon Club was decidedly seedy. The air was thick with the scents of cigars, alcohol, and unwashed flesh, and it was packed with people—mainly men, but there was a good smattering of women here as well, most of whom were scantily dressed and very obviously working the room. Sex, I suspected, could be found here for a price.
My nose twitched at the unpleasant aromas surrounding me, but I ignored them the best I could, grabbed a drink from the bar, then wound my way through the shabby tables, choosing one in the thicker shadows near the bathrooms. It was far enough away from the bar—and most of the patrons—that the air was almost breathable and had the added bonus of affording a good view of the small stage situated to the left of the bar.
I sat down and nursed the icy glass of beer between my palms. This club obviously wasn't one of your more upmarket ones, so it was a little surprising that they'd employed someone like Di Shard to provide their entertainment. Given the state of this place—and the less-than-dapper look of its customers—a stripper would probably have been more appropriate. Or, at the very least, a rock band—although given the club's close proximity to homes, noise regulations would probably have stopped that.
I took a drink of beer and briefly caught the eye of a tall, somewhat hairy inpidual several tables over. He reminded me somewhat of the visage Azriel had said he'd adopted when we'd visited Classique, and I couldn't help smiling. The bear-shifter—he couldn't really be anything else looking like that—obviously took my smile as a go-ahead signal, because he rose, hitched up his trousers, and began wandering over. He was little more than four feet away when he abruptly turned and headed off toward the bar.
I just about choked on my drink. And here I was thinking you couldn't interfere with the thoughts or actions of others unless it involved the key search in some way.
Given the direction of that man's thoughts, you should be thankful I did turn him away.