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candles that the air had turned hot and hazy, smelling of melting wax and hothouse flowers. Despite the slaps on the shoulder and shouts of welcome he received as he made his way through the room, he felt as he always did, alone, apart. Because a part of him never eased, never shed the feeling that any good fortune to fall into his life could just as quickly be snatched away.
    Leaning against one of the onyx pillars that held up the gilded ceiling, Jack watched the dancers. Most were familiar, but there was no one with whom he wanted to engage. The lines of the Bible verse repeated in Jack’s head as they had all day. The story of the Prodigal Son. Was the killer sending a message to Jack? Or referring to himself?
    Across the way was Ian Ranulf, decked out in the Ranulf kilt, a fine black dress coat, and a white lace jabot at his neck. Antiquated attire, but expected of the lycan king, and certainly put together well enough, though his shoes could do with a bit more glossing.
    There were days when Jack missed being Ian’s valet, and the simplicity of it. He knew most people wouldn’t understand, but the work had been soothing. By happenstance or fate, Jack—a half-starved lad, battered and beaten to within an inch of his life for daring to defy his crime bosses—had fallen on Ian Ranulf’s doorstep, unable to go any farther. And Ian had taken him in. It hadbeen Jack’s pleasure to take care of the man who’d given him a home, and it had been the only way he could think of to properly repay Ian.
    But Ian understood Jack better than he realized and had set him free; rather, he had ejected him from the nest. A blessing, really, for whether or not Jack had wanted to admit it, he had grown restless and bored. His adventure with Inspector Lane had been the start of something that fired his blood and gave him true purpose. Then it had all gone to shit.
    Jack’s throat closed, the smoky air smothering him. He stretched his neck, and a series of small pops cracked along his spine.
    “You came,” said a feminine voice at his side.
    Daisy. He hadn’t even noticed her approach. Jack straightened. “It was either that or become an exhibit in headquarters’ main hall.” He leaned down and gave Daisy a light kiss upon her smooth cheek. “Happy birthday, Madam Ranulf.”
    Her cheek plumped. “Poppy got to you, did she?” Daisy’s eyes scanned the dancers and paused upon the woman in question, who was presently dancing with her husband Inspector Lane.
    Dressed in grass-green taffeta, Poppy did not appear to be the warrior woman capable of leading an entire organization, but a goddess sprung from the earth. The married couple executed a turn, and Poppy’s sharp gaze clashed with his. She gave Jack a short nod of acknowledgement.
    “I believe her words were,” he murmured, returning the nod, “ ‘If I have to suffer, then so do you.’ ”
    Beside him Daisy snorted. “I am overwhelmed by the love and affection bestowed upon me by my family.” She sounded more amused than put out.
    Jack turned to look down at her. She was lovely tonight, resplendent in a primrose gown and little white hothouse daisies tucked into her golden curls. Her blue eyes glowed with the power of a GIM and the light of a woman content.
    His tone softened. “I’d say our grievances are with parties in general, not you.”
    “Pish. You and Poppy are peas in a pod, reticent homebodies I have to goad into doing anything remotely carefree.” She glanced at him askance. “Though you are rude to boot. At least my sister has retained a modicum of tact.”
    “Speak your mind, why don’t you?”
    Her mouth pursed. “My apologies. But I am cross with you.”
    “What have I done?” But Jack had a fairly good idea. And he had it coming. His face burned with the truth.
    Daisy’s gaze went back to the ballroom, and to her husband. “He misses you.”
    The burning rose up to his ears as guilt loomed to the fore. Jack crossed his arms over his chest and