“Want to tell me about it?” He didn’t try to keep me when I eased away from him. He just let go a fraction of a second later than he had to.

I sighed, shook my head. “It’s over. That’s all.” A flood of sunlight poured over the dusty pavement, the drop-off at the end ending in a gully that meandered behind businesses and the chain-link fence of a car dealership.

“Good enough.” His hands dropped down to his sides, and he studied me for a long moment before turning away. The manhole was flung to the side—I hadn’t been particularly careful at that point, I just wanted to get at the motherfucker. It was bulky, but he got his fingers under it and hauled it around, and I fished my pager out of its padded pocket, the silver in my hair chiming in a hot draft. “Who’s calling?”

The number was familiar. “Galina. Probably got another load of silver in.” Christ, I hope it’s not more trouble.

“Least it’s not Monty.” The manhole cover made a hollow, heavy metallic sound as he flipped it, gauging the force perfectly so it seated itself in its hole like it had never intended to come loose.

“You’re such an optimist.” The smile tugging at my lips felt unnatural, especially with the stink simmering off my clothes and the sick rage turning in small circles under my heart. The scar twinged, the bloom of corruption on my aura drawing itself smaller and tighter, a live coal.

He smiled back, crouching easily next to the manhole cover. The light was kind to him, bringing out the red-black burnish in his cropped, charm-sprinkled hair, and the perfect texture of his skin. He tanned well, and a fine crinkle of laugh lines fanned out from his eyes when he grinned. They smoothed away as he sobered, looking up at me.

We regarded each other. He of all people never had any trouble meeting my mismatched gaze. And each time he looked at me like this, dark eyes wide open and depthless velvet, I got the same little electric zing of contact. Like he was seeing past every wall I’d ever built to protect myself, seeing me.