Night Shift (Kate Daniels #6.5)(83)

Elana stood at the mouth of the alley, slamming a fresh magazine into her gun, and cussing a blue streak. The leprechauns formerly known as Khaki Guy and Jeans Guy were trussed up in magic manacles and propped up against the alley wall like a pair of Thanksgiving turkeys.

The Suburban was gone.

Ian sprinted to the end of the alley. I caught up to him a couple of seconds later.

“The last two leps got past me,” she growled. “Sorry, Ian.”

“Don’t worry; we’ll get them. They took the Suburban?”

Elana gave a sharp nod and lowered her gun, but she didn’t put it away. The look on her face said she really wanted to use it some more. Those leprechaun SUV-jackers better hope Elana didn’t catch them first.

“Where’s Yasha?” I asked.

Elana jerked her head in a vaguely skyward direction. “Up there. We’ve had company.”

Something heavy slammed into the brick wall two stories above our heads. Then came the shower of broken brick chunks.

Ian jerked me out of the way, and we both looked up.

I had no idea what they were, but the closest thing my panicked mind could come up with was one of those flying monkey things from The Wizard of Oz on steroids. They’d scared the crap out of me on TV when I was a kid; and their all-too-real distant cousin had me plenty terrified right here and now.

“Danescu’s club bouncers,” Ian explained. “For particularly stubborn guests.”

The winged monkey fell out of the sky and landed face-first and spread-eagle in the alley. Nothing landed that hard without being hurled.

Yasha leapt from the roof, shaking the now-cracked pavement under our feet when he landed. He snatched up the monkey by one ankle and slammed it repeatedly against the ground. Then he swung it a couple of times over his head and let it go. I didn’t know how far that monkey flew after Yasha launched it, but the squealing went on for way longer than you’d have thought.

Yasha the werewolf looked at the spot where the Suburban had been, and let out a blood-curdling howl. Then again, those leprechauns would be better off if Elana caught up to them first. I realized that the Suburban probably wasn’t the only thing of Yasha’s they’d stolen.

I think they’d taken his clothes.



“RAKE Danescu took Finn,” I told them.

“How?” Elana asked.

Ian smiled; it was the first real one I’d seen from him. “Portal. But when I tackled the little bastard on that stage, I tagged him in the left ass cheek with a tracking chip.”

That right there went above and beyond the call of duty. Ian Byrne deserved a medal.

“Best hope that chip of yours is multi-dimensional,” Elana said.

“Prince Finnegan wasn’t all Danescu got,” Ian continued, “he also got the identity and a look inside the mind of SPI’s newest seer.”

“He didn’t look inside my mind,” I protested.

“Did he touch you?”

Did he ever.

Elana chuckled. “From the look on your face, I’ll take that as a yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“Familiar with the word ‘enthralled’?” she asked.

“I’m not enthralled.”

“How hard did you try to escape?”

I thought about that.

Elana nodded knowingly. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Meaning that if Rake crosses your path again—”

“I’m screwed.”

“And if you’re lucky, it’ll be literal.”

“Elana,” Ian said in a warning tone.

She snorted. “Any woman and half the men I know would do Rake.”

Ian scowled. “It’s my job to have kept that from happening.”

“You had your hands full—and apparently so did Rake.”

There was no denying that. My favorite lady parts got all tingly again. I mentally smacked myself. Rake Danescu was gone and the residuals were enough to . . . what if he were here, his hands running over my . . . I smacked myself for real.

Elana nodded once. “Like I said, enthralled.”

“Okay, he was kind of hot. Doesn’t mean I’m enthralled; I just need one really good date is all.”

“New girl in town,” Elana mused. “New Southern girl. Play up that Scarlett O’Hara of yours, and I can fix you up.” She thought for a moment. “You don’t mind Yankees, do you?”

“As long as they don’t drink blood or eat brains.”



THE goblin had Finn. We had a tracking device on Finn. Rake Danescu had flying monkeys at his command. But we had an advantage that didn’t have a thing to do with minions or superior spy technology.

We had a naked Russian at the wheel—a really pissed, naked Russian.

In werewolf form, he’d have enough fur to cover the necessaries, but he wouldn’t fit in the truck, let alone be able to get his hands with their five-inch claws around the steering wheel. So shapeshifting back to a naked Russian it was.

I was trying not to look. Fortunately Yasha the naked human was nearly as hairy as Yasha the werewolf. Hugh Jackman had nothing on this guy.

Those leprechauns had stolen Yasha Kazakov’s tricked-out Suburban. It was his baby, his mobile office—hell, it was his partner. And his partner had been kidnapped and taken for a joyride by creatures that in their real form didn’t have legs long enough to reach the gas pedal.