the drunk.
The drunk scowled at them, then at the tiny wisp of smoke rising from his sleeve. He blinked blearily and stumbled toward the door, grumbling under his breath.
“That’s what I thought.” Nick swung around to look at her, a hint of a smile on his full lips and welcome in his green eyes. “Nice parlor tricks.”
Quinn snorted, covering how happy and relieved she was to see him, and turned to her busboy. “Catch that guy and call Charlie to pick him up in his cab, will you?”
“Sure.” He pulled out his cell phone and hit speed dial on his way out. Everyone else dispersed, leaving Quinn relatively alone with Nick. Adrenaline drained out of her, and she would have sat, if showing weakness in front of him wasn’t so unappealing.
“So what’s going on?” She tucked her fingertips into her jeans pockets. The anxiety buzzing in her all day disappeared, allowing the alarm triggered by the e-mail to resurge. “You’re never early.”
“We’ve got a problem.”
Quinn watched him scan the room, cataloging her customers and staff, lingering on her computer in the far corner and the closed door to her office. His face tightened, and he moved a step closer.
“I know we do,” she said.
He whipped his head around, his eyes sharp. “You do?”
“I just found out. Come here.” She led him to the table where her computer slept, its screen dark. “I read this e-mail not five minutes ago.” They sat down, and she tapped a key to wake the computer while Nick signaled for a beer.
They waited for the wireless connection to reestablish. “You getting a lot of trouble like that guy?” he asked.
“No more than usual.” She glanced at him. “Why? Is someone else?”
“Nah.” He stood to pull off his battered, hip-length brown leather coat and hang it over the back of the chair, then rolled the sleeves of his flannel shirt up strong forearms. A waitress sashayed over to set an amber bottle on their table. She looked at Quinn, who shook her head, but Nick made a face and dropped the money on her tray. “Don’t listen to her.”
Quinn didn’t bother to argue. They had the same argument every time he came. Sometimes she won, sometimes he did. It balanced in the end.
Nick sat back down and took a pull of the beer, his strong throat working with the swallow. Light from a nearby candle picked up glints of gold in his short-cropped, dark blond hair. “Where’s Sam?”
Quinn cleared her throat. “In the office.” She diverted her eyes to the computer screen but heard his small snort of derision. “I had it under control, Nick.”
“The moon’s waning, Quinn. I don’t care how powerful you are at peak, you’re tapped out by this time—”
“Not completely. And protecting me isn’t Sam’s job.” She winced, realizing too late it might sound like criticism of Nick, and she hadn’t meant it to be.
He froze, the bottle halfway to his mouth, then set it down. “I told you to stick close. He should be out here. Or you shouldn’t. And I’m not listening to you argue with me. What have you got?” He turned the computer toward him, ignoring her exasperation.
She twisted to read the e-mail with him, now more confused by the words on the screen than anything else. “Well?”
Seconds passed while his eyes tracked over the words. “Fuck me,” he said softly. “That’s not the problem I was talking about at all.”
Chapter Two
The power harnessed by goddesses is a connection to the energy generated by all life in this world—energy that is absorbed by, altered by, or resonating in non-living objects, as well. A goddess’s power is capacity. She is like a vessel, using her source to access, manipulate, and channel energy into and through herself. This ability allows her to do amazing things.
—The Society for Goddess Education and Defense, New Member Brochure
…
Quinn dropped back against her chair, staring at Nick. Being accused of going rogue wasn’t what had brought him here? “What’s the other problem?”
His eyes flicked toward her, then back to the screen. He scrolled down to read the signature on the e-mail, then back up to the top. “There’s a leech out there. He’s hit two goddesses already.”
Fear twanged deep inside her, like a plucked cello string—a completely different kind of fear than the routine rush of facing a drunk with a switchblade and more concrete than an undefined “rogue” accusation. “So when you said ‘we,’ you meant me.”
His mouth curved on one side. “Well, yeah.”