Frowning, I squinted at the form standing in the center of the floor, maybe thirty feet away. Something was wrong. The figure was too short to be Andrew, and too thin to be Luiz. And had way too much hair to be either of the men in question.

I sniffed the air and found a familiar scent—but not the one I was expecting. It wasn’t a stray scent. It wasn’t even a male scent.

“Stop,” she ordered, in a beautifully lilting, lyrical accent. And as my eyes adjusted further, I saw that she was pointing at us with both hands.

“I don’t want to shoot, but I will if I must.”

We hadn’t found Andrew, or Luiz. We’d found Manx. And she had a gun pointed right at Jace’s head.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Whoa.” Jace held both hands up in the familiar defensive posture.

“Manx, right? We don’t want to hurt you. We’re looking for someone else.” His voice gave no indication of the half truth in his statement.

“Probably the same person you’re looking for.”

Where the hel are Marc and Vic? I stared furiously at a rectangle of light in the dark, the outline of a closed door ten feet behind the tabby.

Beyond the door, something moved, blocking part of the light. Marc and Vic were waiting. They’d probably heard the tabby speak and knew she had a gun. Bursting in behind her would only get somebody shot, so they were waiting for a better opportunity to make their entrance.

The tabby frowned at Jace, but her gun never wavered. “I look for no one.” Her accent was thick, but her English was perfectly understandable. And her lie was as transparent as a pane of glass.

“We have a common goal,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t want to shoot potential allies. “We can help each other.”

The tabby growled and swung the gun my way.

My pulse jumped and my throat tightened. I took a deep, calming breath, and the tabby’s scent filled my nostrils, thick with that odd element I couldn’t quite place. My mind flashed back to my mother holding the red-and-gold afghan up for my inspection.

Was I smel ing wool? Or cotton? Or whatever the blanket was made of?

“Is your name Manx?” Jace asked louder than necessary, trying to draw her focus—and her gun—away from me.

She hesitated, her gaze shifting between us as she tried to decide who was the biggest threat.

“What’s that scent?” I asked Jace beneath my breath. Her scent suddenly seemed very important. “She smells weird. What is that?” The tabby’s eyes widened in surprise, then quickly narrowed in fury. Her lips pressed together. She adjusted her aim, and my breath caught in my throat.

Gravel crunched behind me. Had Marc and Vic circled the building?

Manx cocked the hammer.

“No!” Jace threw himself in front of me. The tabby pul ed the trigger.

A blue flash sparked. The blast echoed through the building.

Jace flinched violently, all over. He stiffened, then staggered backward.

“No!” I screamed, tears blurring my vision. I stepped forward to catch him, but a hand grabbed my arm from behind, jerking me off my feet.

Jace fell to the ground. The scent of blood saturated the air.

Manx stared at Jace, mouth wide in horror. She dropped the gun. The door behind her flew open, and Marc rushed into the room, a jagged two-by-four in one hand. The tabby whirled toward him and froze. Vic ran in on his heels, wielding a steel pipe.

So who the hell was hauling me away from Jace? “Let go!” I yanked on my arm, trying to pull free with no success. I whirled around, expecting to see Luiz and prepared to re-break his nose.

I saw Andrew instead.

Adrenaline shot through my bloodstream like a jolt of electricity. I jerked furiously on my arm. Andrew’s sweaty fingers slipped from my skin. His nails ripped my flesh. I hissed in pain and stumbled out of his grasp, already crawling toward Jace.

Jace blinked up at me.

Stunned, I tried to clear my vision.

Andrew leapt into my path. His face twisted into a vicious snarl. He bore almost no resemblance to the man I’d once known. The man whose life I’d ruined.

His fist shot toward me. I ducked, my leg already sweeping toward his.

My foot hit his ankle. He fell on his ass, hissing. His fingers brushed the hem of my jeans. I danced away, then turned toward Jace.

Vic knelt at his side, bare-chested, pressing his own shirt against Jace’s right shoulder.

A blur of motion caught my attention from the corner of my eye. I turned my head to see Marc swing the two-by-four at Manx, who’d reclaimed her gun and was aiming it at Vic. He hit her right arm with the broad side of the plank. The gun fell from her grip and slid on the concrete. Manx screamed and toppled. But instead of clutching her injured arm, her good hand covered her bel y in a familiar protective gesture.

The afghan flashed in my mind again. The one Natalie had crocheted.

Natalie, who was expecting her second… baby.

“Marc, no!” I shouted. He froze, the board raised high over his head, ready to come crashing down on Manx again.

“She’s pregnant!”

Shock claimed Marc’s expression. He lowered the board slowly, staring at Manx with a look of wonder—or maybe horror—as if she had three eyes rather than a microscopic, parasitic, completely un-infectious invasion in her uterus.

Instead of hitting her again, he kicked the gun. It skittered across the huge room, lost to deep shadows in less than a second. Marc met my eyes, his mouth already open to ask how I’d known. Instead, his brow wrinkled and his gaze shifted to something behind me. “Look out!”