The Coiffure Cup was a little boutique and coffee joint located in Edgewood inside the Park Tower. The place was trendy and catered to the sort of clientele who could afford to drop thousands when they felt like pampering themselves. I'd only been by once, and I'd kept a veil over myself the entire time.

I didn't need to check in on Thomas. He was a big boy, and he could take care of himself. Still, the part of me that wasn't entirely rational was afraid he'd go on a bender after realizing how close he'd come to turning me into a thrall. As far as I could tell he was doing as well as he ever did—that is to say, hanging on by his well-groomed fingernails.

He'd glanced in my direction once as I peered in, nostrils flaring. He'd probably guessed I was there, but he hadn't called to confront me about it. He hadn't called me at all since the last time we'd spoken. It was for the best, and I knew it. We weren't good for each other. It didn't stop me from missing him.

I caught Thomas just as he was closing the shop. He was talking animatedly with a petite redhead as he brought the bars rattling down over the entrance. She'd folded her cardigan over her arms, doffing it in an effort to draw attention to the vee of her blouse. She'd undone more buttons than necessary, showing off a truly impressive amount of cleavage. Part of her was hoping that one day he'd change his mind, shove her into a supply closet, and take her hard against a wall. Thomas knew it too, which was why he pointedly looked everywhere but at her chest.

The woman tensed just a little as I approached them, sidestepping in an almost casual fashion to put her body between me and Thomas. Some of it was possession, yes, but a lot of it was concern that I'd make him uncomfortable by throwing myself at him. For a response this engrained it must have been a pretty regular occurrence.

I squinted at her chest. The name tag pinned to her blouse read, "Rona."

"Hello there," Rona said offering me a shiny, customer service smile. "I'm so sorry, but we're currently closed. If you want to make an appointment, we'll open tomorrow morning at nine. Thomas is booked out for a week, but if you'd like to make arrangements with Francesca or-"

"It's okay, Rona," Thomas said, cutting across her. The French accent he used was thick enough to slather on bread. "This iz mon ami, Mac."

"Thomas and I went to school together," I offered, pronouncing his name the way she had. I hastily pulled all my rings off, save one on my left hand before drawing both out of my pockets. "He's amazing, isn't he? He even styled my hair for my wedding. I told him he should have let me pay, but he wouldn't hear of it."

At the sight of the ring and the word 'wedding' Rona instantly relaxed. Thomas didn't seem concerned, so in her mind, I'd moved from a potential problem to an old friend.

"It was my gift to you," Thomas lied smoothly. "How is John, by the way?"

John. It was a common name, and probably the first he could think of, but it still made me pause. After all the rumors and the recent close encounter with Marcone, it felt too on the nose.

"Fine."

Thomas studied my face, and his body language shifted subtly. He leaned forward a fraction and balanced on the balls of his feet as if ready to pounce. His eyes had faded from their usual color to polished chrome, and it took a concerted effort to keep a lid on the demon. It was a Pavlovian response to my suffering that enticed his Hunger. It wasn't that he enjoyed it when I was in pain, but we'd established a pattern. If I approached him like this, he fed, plain and simple.

He thought about hurling himself back inside the doors to put steel between our bodies. And then he thought about dragging me in, shoving me against the steel before stripping me of whatever was in the way.

"I assume this isn't a social call?" he asked, voice a little rougher than it had been a moment ago.

I shook my head. "It's about your family. Could we talk for a minute?"

That sobered him. His face went curiously blank for a second before he turned to smile down at Rona. It was a calculated expression, balanced between apology and concern.

"I'm so sorry about drinks tonight, Rona, but it's my family. Rain check?"

"Of course," she said immediately. "Do whatever you need to do."

Thomas turned back to the shop, disengaged the alarm, and then lifted the shutters, gesturing for me to slip under them. I followed him, and we waited in silence until I was sure Rona and the few stragglers still on the floor were gone. The lights were still off, and only the lights on the many coffee machines let me know where he was.

"I thought I told you this had to stop," he said in a strained whisper, thankfully dropping the accent. "I don't trust myself to be alone with you for long, Molly. You have sixty seconds to tell me what the hell you want before I toss you out on your very fine ass."

The brusqueness of his tone stung, but I kept it off my face.

"I only need two words. House Skavis."

Thomas was on me before I could complete the word 'Skavis.' The metal shutters rattled when my back hit them, but the bruising impact barely registered. A moan escaped the seal of our lips, and my hips arched, desperate for friction. I whimpered when he dragged his mouth from mine and nipped a trail up to the hollow of my ear.

"Don't say the name. Lara has most of my regular haunts bugged," he said, and even the timbre of his voice was enough to make me buck into him. He caught the leg I tried to sling around his waist and hissed out a breath. "Damn it, Molly, none of that."

"We could leave," I suggested. "Go to my place. I have wards to prevent eavesdropping."

He snarled, a sound that was no less intriguing than his roughened voice, despite its animalistic nature.

"No."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because if I get you somewhere private without any promise of repercussions, I will fuck you and there's no telling if you'll survive it. We stay here."

This close, the promise was accompanied by a barrage of images so intense they made my knees wobble. Thomas kept me upright, but the effort made the shutters wobble again. It was a struggle to remember why I'd come to speak to him while his hands were on me, but when I finally fished it out of my hormone-riddled brain, the screaming need to rip his clothes off vanished, doused by cold reality.

I pushed at his chest, and he moved back just enough to let me breathe. I didn't dare hex the electronics in the room to disable the bugs. This was his business, and while I was sure the White Court could afford some kickass insurance, I didn't want to set him back for days or weeks just to keep Lara out of this.

So, I finally settled on something I'd begun researching but hadn't had time to practice. According to Bob, Harry had fashioned a communion spell when he was around my age. It was most effective at close range and with someone you shared an intimate connection with. So, for the second time in one night, I drew in my will and began shaping a spell.

Thankfully, this one didn't require only me to work. I splayed my hands out on Thomas' face as I did, using some of the barely restrained power of his Hunger to build a bridge between his thoughts and mine.

"Testing," I thought. "Testing, one, two, three. Is this thing on?"

Thomas jerked. "What the-?"

I pressed a finger to my lips and then tapped my forehead. "Think it at me."

Thomas took a step back, frowned, and then thought, "What the hell is this?"

"Communion spell. We should be able to talk like this. Don't kiss me, though. I think your Hunger would drown the connection, and there go your plans for the evening."

Thomas took another step back, just to be sure, and his frown deepened. "Okay then. What's going on?"

I reached into the deep pockets of my winter coat and drew out a rumpled section of yesterday's newspaper, shoving it toward him. The headline read, TRAGIC DEATH AT TRIBUNE TOWER. He scanned the article and went very still.

"Any chance it could be a regular suicide?"

I shook my head, dredging up the memory of what I'd seen. Whatever had been urging Rosie toward the ledge sounded off, a copy of her voice with the lines delivered wrong, but with enough charisma that you bought it anyway.

"Skavis."

"Fuck," Thomas said, loud and emphatic.

I rolled my hips and chimed in with a moan to sell it to whoever was listening on the other end.

"Yeah," I replied, raking my fingers down his back. The blue silk shirt did amazing things for his musculature. He shuddered before recovering enough to think.

"Tell me what you know about House Skavis."

He sighed. "I think I have an idea who's responsible, but I can't discuss it here. What will you do if I tell you?"

"You know."

His hands tightened, almost bruising my skin, even through the coat.

"Don't. It's suicide."

I let out a breathless laugh. "Yeah, probably, if I don't have backup."

Thomas glowered at me before spitting an additional, "Fuck!"

"Maybe in the car," I said with as much cheer as I could muster. "For now, I just want a name."