He checked again, running his fingers beneath the bedside tables, pulling out those small drawers and rummaging through their contents.Socks, jocks, lube, and more hair elastics than he’d ever imagined the bloody Hadley prince owning.
The bathroom was no different.It was devoid of anything that said monster in need of putting down.He leaned against the door and scanned the room.There was no sign that he’d tossed the apartment, but Nixon would know.Not much slipped past a full-blooded vampire.
He might as well write a note on the pad in the kitchen.
He picked it up, trying to see what Nixon had written on it previously.There was a faint impression of dates and times.His shifts, Lance realized.That wasn’t incriminating.
There was no hit list, no vendetta scrawled across the walls.This was the house of a sales rep at a winery.Nothing even hinted at Nixon being a vampire—unless he counted the lack of fruit and veg in the fridge.It was like he’d chased the wrong man across the country for the past six months.
Why are you working, Hadley?
What scheme are you planning?
His aunt was expecting revenge from the two remaining Hadleys.All Lance saw was a man trying to hide.
What was Nixon trying to hide?If he knew where his sister was, there was nothing Lance could find to prove that.That was the Hadley his aunt was most interested in.She didn’t want new Hadley spawn.
He should call his aunt and wait right there.He nodded to himself even though he knew he wasn’t going to make that call.
He should’ve hated Nixon on sight, not wanted to get his number.
And that’s what he wrote on the notepad.His number.
ChapterFive
Nix closedoff the cash register and put the money in the safe.The restaurant would be running until much later, but he was done.He let the smile he’d forced for the last few hours fade.Orlan’s visit had left him chilled, and he’d formed no escape plan.
He’d had no time to think because of the busload of tourists.There was no way he could stay in Whispering River now.That he’d come to think of it as home was his mistake.Nowhere was home anymore.Nowhere was safe.
In the growing dark, he rode to his place.In another month, he’d be riding in full dark, not that it bothered him—if anything, he preferred the dusk and night to blinding daylight.His legs ached, the ride taking forever as the wind pushed against him.Usually, he liked riding and being lost in his own thoughts; today, he kept glancing around and wondering if Orlan was lying in wait.Or was that more his own style?
He didn’t know anything about the unblooded vampire.
He parked his bike against the granny flat he rented, went up the steps, and stopped.A warning traced down his back.His hand hovered over the door handle, and he sniffed, needing to be sure.
Orlan had been to his home.The scent was old, so he wasn’t waiting.Nix snarled, his fangs flicking forward from the roof of his mouth.A thousand curses on the Orlans.May their line wither in the sun.
He shoved open the door, expecting the worst, but everything was as exactly as he’d left it.Not a wrinkle in the bed sheets.Even the clothes on the armchair were just so.Nix’s snarl became a smile.
Damn.Orlan was good.
He ran his hand behind the wall-mounted TV.The small stiletto blade was still there.There was a small hunting knife in his boot that he never went anywhere without.He cast his gaze around the room, looking for signs of disturbance.
The pen in the kitchen had been moved.
He didn’t care about the knife behind the TV or the silver wire in the pocket of a coat.Or even the pen.He dropped to his knees by the bedside table.A little block of a thing attached to the headboard.The drawers couldn’t be taken out—had people stolen drawers in the past?He pulled out the bottom drawer as far as it would come and then awkwardly reached his hand into the cavity.A gap between the drawer and the base of the table, just enough space to hold a few documents.
His fingers brushed the bag, and he pulled it out.
Cash and the postcard he’d received from Zinnia when he’d been in Darwin.He was pretty sure she hadn’t been in Tasmania when she’d sent it.There’d been an innocuous message about enjoying her holiday, but she’d signed off with a red heart.He’d come to Perth after that, and the Reids had let him run all the way to Whispering River.
Why had they given permission for an Orlan to follow?
Or was that them claiming to be impartial?
Either way, the game was up.
He fisted the bag, knowing he needed to run but unable to move.He’d let himself start making plans for a future he wasn’t entitled to.He’d thought he’d be safe from the Orlans.
