According to Mrs. Grady, Harper’d had frequent overnight guests in the four years he’d lived next door, but none had stayed more than one night, and none of them came even close to fitting the tabby’s description. Evidently big brother Robby had a thing for redheads, and while he’d settle for a blonde in a pinch, he’d never shown any interest in brunettes.

However, according to Jeff’s description of the woman seen with Harper the day before, it was obvious that species trumped hair color any day of the week.

When we’d gathered everything we could from Mrs. Grady, Marc and I left Kevin in the hal listening to her party-menu suggestions while we used Julie’s key—which had actually come from Harper’s own pocket—to check out the apartment. We discovered nothing more interesting than a massive pile of dirty laundry and an unhealthy fondness for SPAM and SpaghettiOs.

We rescued Kevin from Mrs. Grady, reluctantly, and he drove us back into New Orleans, where we made a short stop for beignets and cafés au lait before heading out to catch our flight home. At the airport, Kevin pulled into a space in short-term parking and popped the trunk without getting out. I got out on the passenger side and circled around to grab our smal bags from the back while Marc knelt to have a final word with Kevin through the lowered driver’s window.

“Stay close to home and keep your phone within reach.” Marc’s voice was low and amazingly professional. “You’ll be getting a call from Greg very soon.”

“Hey, it doesn’t have to be like that,” Kevin whispered.

“There’s no reason to involve Greg in this. I’m sure we can work something out, just between the two of us.”

“No,” Marc said. “We can’t.” He stood and turned his back on the prick behind the wheel, accepting the bag I handed him.

“…think you’re so much better than me,” Kevin hissed at Marc, when we were several feet from the car. “Faythe’s the only reason you’re even here. Without her, you’re just another stray cat licking the Alpha’s boots, one false move away from the wrong side of the river.”

“What did he say?” I demanded, turning back to face our idiot of an escort. But by the time I had him in sight, Marc was already beside the car, swinging a rare left-handed punch, because of the angle of the open window. His fist smashed into Kevin’s nose. Blood spurted all over the steering wheel, the windshield, and the front of Kevin’s shirt.

Kevin was too busy spitting out his own blood to scream, and Marc turned back toward me calmly, already wiping blood from his fist with a wet wipe from his backpack. He threw the wipe in the nearest trash can, and we continued on into the airport without another word.

I finally thought to turn my cell phone ringer back on and check my voice mail at the gate, as we waited to board the plane. There were two.

Messages, not planes.

The first was from my father, telling me he’d sent Vic and Owen after yet another body, following a second tip by the same anonymous informant. They’d gone to Pickering, a tiny Louisiana town near the western edge of the Calcasieu Ranger District of the Kisatchie National Forest. Marc had a similar message on his own voice mail.

My hand began to shake when I saw the number the second voice mail had come from. Andrew. Shit. I waited to listen to the message until Marc ducked into the men’s room nearest our gate.

“I got your message, Faythe. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you—”

His voice was interrupted by a series of loud pops or explosions, followed by the distinctive thwup, thwup, thwup of blades beating the air, like the rotors on a helicopter, only older and more rickety-sounding. And when silence settled in again, he went on, as if he’d never been interrupted.

“—you don’t want to see me. But I’m looking forward to seeing you.

Won’t be long now.” His next words were swallowed by another series of booms, just as Marc came out of the men’s room, heading right for me.

Smiling, I flipped the phone shut and shoved it into my pocket as he sank into the molded plastic airport chair on my right.

This had gone too far. I would have to tell both Marc and my father about Andrew; there was no getting around that now. But I couldn’t do it in the airport, or on the plane. Marc was not going to react well, and shouldn’t be cooped up on a plane full of humans when he found out.

I’d tell him later, when we were alone together. Then my father.

It was going to be a long night.

By nine o’clock that evening, Marc and I were back at the ranch. My mother had held dinner for us, so the entire household—minus Vic and Owen—sat around the eight-foot dining-room table, eating baked halibut and listening to our report.

“So, Harper left with the tabby voluntarily?” Jace asked, stabbing two spears of asparagus with his fork.

“So it would appear.” I stirred sugar into my tea as I continued.

“According to Jeff-the-bartender, she was more than adequately equipped to lure any man away from his favorite stripper. Or his wife. A regular siren on two legs. Jeff didn’t know her name, but he gave me a good physical description. She’s my height. Maybe a little shorter. Long, dark, curly hair. Pale grayish eyes. Dark, exotic skin. And he said she was hot, which I assume means she’s curvy.” Or maybe that she’s all ready to burn in hell for her crimes.

Ethan’s eyes lit up, and I rolled my own. I should have known he’d care more about the tabby’s build than the fact that she’d already murdered at least two toms. I occupied my mouth with a bite of fish to keep from telling him exactly how screwed up I thought his priorities were. He wouldn’t listen to me, anyway.