Wicked Wings (Lizzie Grace #5) - Keri Arthur Page 0,9

hope? Because I don’t think your poor feet will cope.”

“No, although dancing of the more intimate variety might be on the menu later in the evening, if you’re feeling up to it.”

“Always,” I murmured, then claimed his lips with mine.

For several minutes, there was nothing more than the passion that rose with the kiss—one that was so raw, so powerful, and so very erotic that it rocked my very soul.

“And this,” he murmured eventually, his breath little more than warm sharp pants against my kiss-swollen lips, “is why I avoid getting too close to you when I’m on duty.”

I chuckled and pulled away. “Then perhaps I’d better go back to your place so I can be on hand to cure your… not so little… problem whenever you finish duty tonight.”

“That only makes me ache harder.” He brushed the damp hair from my eyes. “Do you remember the alarm’s key code?”

I nodded. He’d added the alarm after a number of houses in the Argyle area had been broken into, and so far I’d set the damn thing off three times. “If I’m asleep, feel free to wake me.”

“If it’s not too late, I will.” He kissed me again, but as it threatened to turn into more, he pulled back and, with a soft curse, turned and walked away.

I grinned and watched until he’d disappeared. The cat had already gone back to the second murder scene—Monty had obviously gotten sick of waiting.

It didn’t take me long to arrive back at Monty’s. Instead of jumping over the fence, I simply followed it along to the end house in the row and then cut across the small park to the road. Nothing moved except the shadows playing across the footpath between each light pole, with little to be heard beyond the distant song of cicadas and the occasional growl of a car driving past on nearby Johnson Street. My psychic senses were mute, and yet… the odd feeling of being watched stirred. I casually glanced around, taking in the nearby houses. Nothing. Nor was there any sense of movement within the tree-lined verge that separated this street from Johnson.

Nevertheless, there was something in those shadows.

I had no immediate sense of evil and no idea if it was the demon or not. But whatever it was, it was old. Very old.

I shivered, but fought the desire to wrap a repelling spell around my fingers. Whatever—whoever—watched from those shadows presented no immediate threat, but that might well change if I did anything to spook it.

I flexed my fingers, but it did little to ease my growing tension. Why were my psychic senses all but mute when it came to whatever watched from those shadows? Was it simply a matter of them becoming so attuned to evil they’d lost the ability to sense beings who dwelled on the edges of that spectrum? Or was something else happening? Was it possible my watcher shielded its presence from me? Although, if it did, why was I getting any sense of it at all?

Did it, perhaps, simply wish me to know it was there and nothing else?

That certainly seemed to be the case.

I resisted the urge to increase my pace and kept my eyes on the lights ahead, even though every other sense was attuned to the shadows and whatever hid within them.

The distant thump of bass-heavy music soon replaced the cicadas, and it was accompanied by the happy rise and fall of conversation—all of it coming from the pub one street over. It was tempting to head over there, if for no other reason than to lose my unseen follower, but that might well end badly. Even if I had no immediate sense of threat, I also had no idea what it wanted. Until I did, I simply couldn’t risk leading it to a heavily populated venue.

I continued on. My tail kept pace and, despite the well-lit street and fewer shadows, remained out of sight. There had to be some sort of magic involved, even if I wasn’t sensing it.

I swung onto Mostyn Street and strode toward our café. I used the shop windows to study the street behind me, but there was no telltale shimmer to suggest magic was being employed, no acidic, demonic scent riding the drifting breeze, and no sound of footsteps even though I had a bad feeling my watcher was closer now than when I’d first sensed him or her. If not for the inner certainty that appeared to be emanating from the prophetic