He studied my face and then shook his head. “At least give me the benefit of the doubt by not strolling out that door and testing my theory.”
“There are plenty of exits. I know my way around.”
“Good. But wandering the halls looking like this, we’re going to raise alarms.”
“All right. Let’s pretty up, then.”
Marsten declared his tux jacket a write-off. That was fine—it was nearing midnight, and jackets and ties would be coming off anyway as the party wore down. Under it, his shirt only needed a brisk wipe-down. My dress had actually fared quite well, with only a rip under the arm and a smear of blood on the skirt. Take off my nylons, wipe down my dusty shoes and bloody knees with a damp paper towel, and I was fine … below the neck, anyway. There were no mirrors, and my distorted reflection in the stainless steel table wasn’t very helpful.
“Here,” Marsten said, “I’ll get your face if you can clean mine.”
He wet a fresh paper towel in the lab sink. I lifted my face. He raised the cloth to my cheek and then paused to brush cobwebs from my hair. When he finished, he smiled, took a stray strand, and wrapped it around his finger. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it was more than a “stray strand.” It was a huge hunk of hair, which thirty minutes ago had been battened down in an upswept twist.
I groaned. “How bad is it?”
“It’s a bit … tousled. Very sexy.”
I lifted my hand to my hair and swore. At least half of it had come free. Beyond repair without a brush, a mirror, and a half hour of styling time. I yanked out a handful of pins and gave my hair a shake, letting it fall down my back.
“Mmmm … very sexy.”
“Down, boy. We’re fleeing for our lives, remember.” I raked my fingers through my hair. “Any better?”
A wolfish grin. “Much. You look like you just crawled out of bed.”
“Not the look I’m aiming for. Damn it.”
He caught my hands as I tried to smooth out the damage. “It’s fine. Tousled, yes, but it looks intentional.”
He put his hand under my chin and lifted the wet cloth again. Then he paused again.
“What now?” I said.
A low chuckle. “I was just thinking I’ve never seen a woman who looked so beautiful in dirt and cobwebs. Trouble suits you.”
“You have no idea,” I muttered.
“I’m sure I don’t, but I certainly hope I get the chance to find out.” He brushed his finger over my cheek.
“Fleeing for our lives, remember? Let’s save the flattery and soulful gazing until after we escape.”
“Is that a date?”
“Date!” I jumped so fast I knocked the paper towel from his hand. “Sorry. My date. Douglas. He’ll be looking for me. I need to tell him—”
“Tell him what? Don’t worry, I was held captive by a werewolf, but I’m okay now … except for the deranged Cabal sorcerer on my tail?”
I glared up at him. “I’m serious. He’ll be worried.”
“Let him worry. From what I saw, it’s only, what, a first, maybe second date? You didn’t seem very enamored.”
“He’s a nice guy. Kind of. He’s not evil.”
Marsten’s brow shot up. “That’s your dating criteria?”
“You know what I mean. He was worried, and I can’t just walk out on him. Plus, if my mother finds out I abandoned the guy she set me up with—”
“Your mother sets you up on blind dates? With guys like that?” The corners of his mouth twitched. “She doesn’t like you very much, does she?”
“My mother—” I bit back the rest, and started again. “My mother is just fine, which is why I won’t embarrass her like this. Believe me, I embarrass her enough … as much as she tries to pretend otherwise.”
His face softened. “All right. But while I do understand, you’re forgetting—”
“The whole ‘fleeing for our lives’ part?” I took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’ll work something out later. Apologize to my mother. Make it up to Douglas …”
“I don’t think you owe Douglas anything, but if we need to go past the party, you can tell him. Make an excuse to leave, and call it even.”
I was picking cobwebs out of Marsten’s hair when I remembered something else.
“The gun,” I said. “I should’ve grabbed the gun.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. In my experience, guns are only good for threatening. In combat, I’m as likely to shoot my own foot. Best to avoid them altogether.”
“Easy to say when you have super-strength, super-senses, fangs, claws …”
He glanced up at me as I plucked out another cobweb. “You are a—what’s the word they use?—a supernatural, aren’t you?”
“Sure, but not all of us come with built-in defense mechanisms. Why do you think I carry a gun?”
“So what is your—”
“Speaking of my gun, it’s also still back there, in my purse, with my bracelet. Damn it.”
“The charm bracelet is an heirloom, I presume.”
“So you didn’t mistake it for a ‘cheap bauble’ after all. And you still didn’t try to nick it?”
He glowered as he got to his feet.
“What?” I said. “I’ve offended you? I should be ashamed of myself. Those pieces in your pocket just fell in there, didn’t they? Damn museum displays. Stuff just drops off them—”
“Point taken,” he said as he stood and smoothed his hair. “But no, your bracelet isn’t at risk. Valuable or not, it’s worth more to you than to me. These”—he reached into his jacket pocket and transferred the jewels to his trouser pocket—“are worth something only to an insurance company. Which I realize is no excuse, but—” He shrugged. “As for your bracelet, considering it’s with your gun, and you’d probably feel safer carrying that, I suggest we make that office our first stop, presuming Tristan has moved on.”
I shook my head. “Yes, I want it back, but we need to go. I have to trust my purse will still be there when all this is done.”
“I’ll make sure I get it for you later.”
Later? I hoped that didn’t mean he planned to come back and steal something else.
No, he’d been leaving when I’d first stopped him. So why …?
He took my elbow and propelled me toward the door. “Let’s go before they find us.”
It took a few minutes to get my bearings. The laboratories weren’t part of a typical museum tour and were woefully lacking in directional signs. The lack of windows didn’t help. Great for security and artifact preservation; not so great for those needing to end their visit in a hurry.
“There,” I whispered to Marsten. “That’s the media room. I was there last month for a story.”
“You’re a journalist?”
I nodded, not mentioning I’d been covering the story of an “ancient curse” that a former worker swore was responsible for his herpes outbreak.
Did all this mean I’d never cover another silly curse story? An unexpected pang of panic raced through me. I liked what I did. Once I’d worked past the “I’m too good for this” phase, I’d genuinely enjoyed tracking down UFOs and Hell Spawn sightings, far more than I’d ever liked covering drive-by shootings and political scandals. But if I wasn’t working for the council plugging supernatural leaks …
Had I ever been suppressing leaks? Or had I just been covering up a Cabal’s messes?
My gut twisted.