Timms muttered something under his breath Cynna pretended not to hear.
A few courthouse employees had jumped the gun on quitting time. A dumpy woman was cranking up her shiny red Mustang as Cynna and Timms reached the parking lot; two men carrying briefcases got into matching SUVs. A battered pickup pulled out of the lot.
One car was arriving, not leaving. A white, late-model Camry with D.C. plates turned into the lot and parked in the empty spot two spaces down from the Ford Cynna had borrowed from Lily. Cynna glanced at the driver as he climbed out, then stopped dead. Her hormones did the Snoopy dance.
Cullen Seabourne stood there grinning at her. His T-shirt was old and tight, his denim jacket in worse shape than hers, and his jeans worn threadbare in interesting places. Two days of stubble decorated that impossibly gorgeous face, and he'd needed a haircut at least a month ago.
At least one person here was dressed worse than she was, even if shabby looked a lot better on him than it did on her. She parked her hands on her hips. "Well, hell."
"Been there, done that," he said cheerfully. "You going to introduce me to your sidekick?"
"What are you doing here?"
His eyebrows climbed. "Isn't it obvious? I'm going to help you bag your demon."
"It's not my demon, and you are not—"
Timms spoke right over her. "Who is he?"
She rolled her eyes. "Agent Timms, Cullen Seabourne. Cullen's a lupus," she added, not sure which of the two men she wanted to needle but figuring they both deserved it.
Timms narrowed his eyes at Cullen. "You don't look like part of the Unit."
"Oh, no," he said blithely. "I help out when I can, but the FBI isn't interested in my professional skills. I take my clothes off for a living."
CYNNA told Cullen he wasn't going with them to speak to the Leidolf Rho. She told him to go back to D.C., where he might be of some use. She was firm. She let him know his help was not needed.
So why was he sitting next to her in the backseat of Lily's Ford while Timms drove?
Well, .she did know why she'd let Timms get behind the wheel. She wanted to be free to do a cast every so often. But how, exactly, had the man with the face of a god and the morals of an alley cat ended up in the car with them?
Surely she hadn't caved in to her body, which really appreciated being close enough to reach out and touch. Because she was so not touching him. No way, no how. She was working, dammit.
Besides, he was a jerk. Oh, not an all-around jerk. She admitted that. Cullen had risked everything to rescue Rule, so he had friendship potential. But where women were concerned, he set off her jerk-o-meter.
Cynna knew a jerk when she lusted after one—which was usually, she admitted. Rule was the single, shining exception to her lousy taste in men. Not that she was looking for Mr. Right. She couldn't imagine pledging to live with one person for her entire life. It boggled her brain that people did this regularly. How could they possibly know?
But she was tired of waking up with yet another Mr. What-Was-I-Thinking. She meant to change that, even if her stupid hormones hadn't yet signed on with the plan. "Victor Frey may not allow you on his land."
"Victor thinks I'm scum," he agreed. He sat in a comfortable sprawl that took up more than his share of the seat, with his knee nearly touching her thigh. "But that means he'll think he can use me. Victor gets off on using people."
"Guess we'll find out soon." The cop car ahead of them turned off on a dirt road marked by a small sign that read, Private Property. Keep Out. "Don't they have guards, like at Nokolai Clan-home?"
"You won't see them unless they decide to stop us. You haven't picked up any trace of the demon that killed Randall?"
She shook her head. "My range is limited, though, because the pattern's from a dead demon, and I'm looking for a live one. Also, I haven't done a full cast yet—just quickies."
They turned onto the dirt road. Its ungraded surface trended mostly upward, winding through a slew of trees.
Cynna was a child of the city. She didn't really approve of trees. Not wild trees, anyway, and not in such numbers, and especially not when they held hands overhead as if they wanted to be ready to drop a branch on intruders.
Enough with the trees, she told herself. "Uh… I guess Lily and Rule briefed you."
"Thoroughly enough that she felt obliged to threaten my tongue. That's her gentle way of suggesting I don't discuss top secret secrets in front of those who lack my wisdom and discretion." He wiggled his eyebrows at the back of Timms's head. "Speaking of being briefed, did Rule warn you about Victor Frey?"
"Said he's mean, smart, and hard to predict."
"That's one way to put it. Victor's a treacherous son of a bitch. He'll try to charm you."
"I'm hard to charm."
"Pretend, then. He doesn't expect much from women, so you can lull his suspicions that way, and you're going to need every advantage you can get. If you'd sleep with him, too—"
"What?"
"Okay, that's out. Not that I blame you, but for some reason a lot of women have slept with Victor—or not slept, as the case may be, but I'm trying to be tactful. Did Rule mention that Victor's surviving son and possible heir is crazy?"
Her eyebrows shot up. "You're talking figuratively?"
"No, I'm pretty sure that's the literal truth. Brady Gunning is a sadistic sociopath."
"Gunning? Isn't he a Frey, too?"
"Not unless he's named heir. Mummy and Daddy don't marry when Daddy's a lupus—you know that. So we carry our mother's surname."
"Rule doesn't."
"An accepted heir usually adopts his father's surname."
So Rule hadn't started out as a Turner. Maybe that's why the FBI had never been able to dig up much about him before he "came out" as the Nokolai prince. "Will this Brady Gunning be there today?"
Cullen shrugged. "If not, he'll show up soon. Leidolf Clan-home is smaller than Nokolai Clanhome. Not many clan actually live there, but most are close by. They'll be descending on their clanhome for the naming."
"The naming. Of the new heir, you mean?"
He nodded, frowning into space as if he'd half forgotten she was there.
Which was another good reason not to touch. Cullen Seabourne was fantastic fling material, and she'd been tempted to pursue that option when they first met. But then she'd gotten to know him. In between hot, sweaty bouts of sex he was likely to forget you existed.
Not that it mattered, since she wasn't going to have hot, sweaty sex with him. She dragged her thoughts back to business. Cullen hadn't answered her question about why he was here instead of chasing dragons, but Timms was listening. She'd ask again when they were alone.
In the meantime, she might as well see if anything nasty was hiding in all those trees. Cynna trickled power into the kielezo for the dead demon, letting it itch there a moment as it built. Then she held up her hand, and—"Ow!"
They'd bounced over a rut so hard she'd hit her head on the roof.
"Sorry." Timms didn't sound sorry.
Cynna scowled at the back of his head. The headache she'd already started on ached in earnest now. "Slow it down. I can't do a cast if I'm bouncing off the roof."
"What does it matter? You haven't found anything."
Sitting in the driver's seat seemed to have gone to his head. "Slow. It. Down."
"Rebellion in the ranks," Cullen said sympathetically. "Want me to bite him for you?"
Timms's shoulders twitched.
"Better not," Cynna said. "He'd shoot you, and Lily would be pissed if we got blood all over her car."
Cullen grinned. "No, he wouldn't. Not before I—"
"Cullen—"
"Shut the fuck up," Timms said.
She swung toward him. "What?"
"Him. Not you. I'm not working with a damned werewolf. A damned werewolf stripper."