Deathtrap (Crossbreed #3)(56)

I put my hands in my coat pockets. “I know a bet when I see one, so if that’s what’s happening here, I want whatever you two wagered.”

When Christian rested his elbows on the table with a look of annoyance, I sat next to Claude.

“So what did I win?”

Claude locked his hands behind his neck, showing off his muscles. “The next beer is on us.”

“I’ll take a rain check. We need to stay sober until we hear from Viktor. Any news?”

Claude checked his phone messages. “Nothing yet.”

I looked at the long bar to my right, colored lights matching the theme splashed against the bottles and glasses along the back wall. Hooper was polishing a glass and talking to a man who wore a tribal tattoo on his right arm. When the man got up to leave, one of the waitresses winked at him as she briskly walked behind the bar to mix a drink. She swirled the glass in her hand, a red glow appearing from her fingertips and lighting up the glass.

“Why don’t they just spike the bottles of alcohol instead of each individual order?” I asked.

Christian followed the direction of my gaze. “Just imagine a row of bottles spiked by Sensors. You don’t think that would be tempting to thieves? One can only guess how much they’d go for on the black market. A bottle of wrath could make an otherwise sane man do terrible things. Imagine what it might do to a man who’s already insane. Imagine serving them to members of the higher authority at a banquet.”

“Okay, I see your point.” My gaze traveled across the room. “I see something interesting.”

“A plate of onion rings?”

I kicked him under the table. “No. But remember that woman our Mage was talking to before he ran off? Well, there she is.”

Claude craned his neck. “Are you sure it’s the same woman?”

“Pretty sure, unless blond hair with black bangs is the latest trend in your salon this season.”

“You slay me.”

When I rose from my seat, Christian snatched my arm. “You’re certain it’s her?”

I nodded.

He regarded Claude for a moment and discreetly pointed at his own eyes. Claude gave a curt nod and stood up, ambling over to the bar and turning to face the crowd.

Christian quickened his pace when the woman steered toward the dance floor. I fell back a few steps and let him take the reins.

“I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” he said to her, irritation in his voice.

The woman looked warily at him, as did I. That was certainly a way to get a woman’s attention, but not the route I would have chosen.

“I was sitting across the way and noticed you standing alone.” He looked at her with smoldering eyes and turned on the charm, his voice sticky-sweet. “I’ve not seen eyes that lovely in a hundred years.”

I snickered. “Do you say that affirmation to yourself in the mirror every morning?”

Christian heard me but was putting on a performance. He seemed quite adept at playing a role to get what he wanted in almost any given situation. He’d left his jacket in the car, and he had on one of those threadbare T-shirts with a wide V-neck that showed off his chest. He placed his hand on a pillar and leaned against it, forcing her to take notice of him.

“I’m not interested in a drink,” she said.

“A lovely lass such as yourself deserves more than a drink. What you need is a luxury car. That’s how I treat a lady.” As he spoke, it dawned on me that his eyes never looked away. He was drawing her under his spell but making the conversation appear innocuous to the crowd around us should anyone be listening. “Would you like to know what the inside of a Porsche feels like?”

She nodded, and that’s when I closed in on them.

Christian petted her cheek and slowly pulled her into his arms. “I’ll keep you warm. How do you feel?”

“I’m hungry,” she said.

As they moved toward the door, she remained under his influence. He looked away briefly to signal me to open the door for them, and once outside, he instructed her to follow him. Only then did he look away.

“We need to make this quick,” he said to me.

I peered over my shoulder at the woman following. Her puffy beige coat was unzipped, snowflakes sticking to her blouse. She looked like a pale-faced zombie with all that dark mascara and eyeliner.

When we reached the van, he opened up the back. “It’s warmer in here. Would you like to get warm?”

She took his hand and climbed into the back.

Once inside, Christian shut the back door and made her sit down on one of the benches along the side. He squatted in front of her to maintain eye contact, and I sat across from them.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Amber Warren.”

“Were you here a couple of nights ago?”

“The night of the sixteenth,” I added.

She nodded, her face expressionless.

“Do you remember talking to a Mage?” Christian asked. “Dark hair, a tattoo on the back of his neck, green eyes…”

She nodded adamantly. “Cristo.”

I jerked my neck back. “Crisco?”

Christian peered over at me. “Cristo. We’re not looking for cooking oil, unless you plan on baking brownies.”

“What kind of name is that?”