sour feeling in his stomach, as he recalled the petty satisfaction he had felt upon seeing the dark circles beneath her eyes. “Are you saying she’s afraid of me?”
Seth pursed his lips. “It isn’t fear. It’s ...” An adequate response seemed to elude him. And such did not happen often. “Meeting new people is difficult for Ami. It is one of the reasons I decided to name her your Second. She needs stability. And, as you are aware, I never know from one day to the next where I will seek my rest, how many immortals or members of the network I will have to meet with or aid, or how many might drop by my homes when I am in residence. Keeping her at my side simply is not in her best interest.”
Keeping her at his side. Once again, Marcus wondered at the extent of their relationship. “So you thought assigning her to an immortal you believe is walking the edge would provide her with the stability she needs?”
Seth scowled. “I trusted you to get your shit together and accept her, not pull a Roland.”
“If I had pulled a Roland, she would have run screaming from the house ten minutes after you left her.”
For some reason, this seemed to amuse Seth. “Don’t underestimate her. Ami may be uncomfortable around strangers and have what some might classify as a unique form of post-traumatic stress disorder, but she can kick your ass.”
“Not possible,” Marcus scoffed.
Seth smiled. “I wouldn’t test her were I you. Just suck it up, accept her as your Second, and everything will be fine.” He pulled a pocket watch out of his slacks and flipped it open. “I have to go. Xavier is waiting for me in Montreal.”
“Wait. Would you fix my bike before you go?”
“Do I look like a mechanic?”
Marcus swore. “Having to run home and regroup will take up valuable hunting time.”
Seth shrugged. “Not my problem. Call your Second.”
In the next instant, he was gone.
Marcus tried to draw in a breath to sigh, but a bolt of pain shot through his chest like lightning and cut it short.
Grunting, he muttered, “You should’ve asked him to fix your bloody ribs, not your bike.”
The sounds of insects, frogs, and other night creatures gradually resumed as he retrieved his cell phone from his coat pocket.
Strolling toward his busted-up Hayabusa, Marcus paused in the middle of the road where it curved sharply to the right (the Busa had opted to continue straight and plow into two trees fused together at their bases) and dialed Chris Reordon’s number.
Seth had—over the centuries, if not millennia—devoted a great deal of time to recruiting and developing a network of humans who now supported the Immortal Guardians’ cause, aiding them in any way they could and keeping their existence (and that of vampires and gifted ones ) a secret from the rest of society. Chris Reordon ran the East Coast division of the network in the United States and was rumored to be the best agent, primarily because he had friends in very interesting places. There wasn’t a law enforcement or government agency he had failed to infiltrate. He had even managed to provide real-time Keyhole satellite surveillance images last year when Marcus, Roland, Seth, Étienne, and Lisette had descended upon Bastien’s lair.
“Reordon,” a male voice came over the line.
“Chris, it’s Marcus.”
“Hey, man. How’s it going?”
“Not that great. I wrecked my bike.”
“Ah, hell. Not the Hayabusa.”
“That’s the one.”
“Please tell me it’s just a scratch.”
Marcus studied the wreckage. “I’m sure if you sort through the debris, one or two pieces will have scratches on them.”
“Damn, man. What about you? Are you okay?”
“I will be.”
“What’s your position?”
Marcus answered as specifically as he could, given that he was surrounded by endless cornfields, hayfields, and forest.
“I’ll send Marion to collect the bike and give you a ride home if you want one. He’s closest and can be there in fifteen
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