“It is my sanctuary.”

On that note, she walked into the interior, her body swallowed down by the darkness’s gullet. Just as he was getting worried about her, there was a flicking sound, and then light bathed an interior that had a totally open floor plan.

Mel motioned with her hand. “Come in, please.”

Butch stepped over the threshold. “Holy… shit.”

The door closed of its own volition with a banging sound, and he almost jumped—but that would have been a pussy move. And then he was distracted by the crib. The walls and floor of the three thousand or so square feet were painted black, and four concrete pylons kept the ceiling from caving in, making him feel like he’d shrunk and was standing under a coffee table. A sitting area was delineated by a large area rug, with a sofa, three chairs, and a coffee table—in all white leather—arranged on it like a glamorous Hollywood meeting was about to happen. There was also a king-sized bed over against one wall, with black satin sheets and a throw blanket of some fur-like persuasion slipping off one corner of the mattress. The bathroom was likewise fully in view, a Victorian claw-foot tub set next to a sink and a toilet, all of which were white. Oh, and the galley kitchen was directly across the way, the refrigerator, stove, and sink running down the wall and fronted by a barrier of white countertop.

But none of that was what stunned him.

Clothes took up at least half the square footage. There were tall racks with evening gowns. Medium ones with slacks. Shorter sets of blouses and skirts. Shelves with forward tilts displayed stilettos, wedges, boots, and flats. Birkin bags, and Chanel purses, and Judith Leiber minaudières sat on Lucite tables, their cloth storage bags folded under them, the boxes they’d come in like thrones for their glory. A modern era, floor-length, store-worthy mirror—the kind with the wings on the left and right that you could angle to inspect the rear of yourself—was set upon a white shag carpet.

“I have a shopping addiction,” Mel said sadly. “It started when I was a model.”

“This is epic.” He walked over and pulled out a blood-red crêpe de chine gown from its lineup of colleagues. “Dior?”

“Early eighties. I love vintage.”

“Me, too. Although I know more about men’s designers, of course.”

“So I don’t have to explain to you how someone from Southie ended up in love with fashion?”

“Not at all.” He wandered around, checking out Valentino skirts, and Chanel blouses, and Gaultier bustiers. “You have great taste.”

“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “Do you mind if I take a bath? I’d like to get clean.”

“I should go.” He turned back to her. “And I still really think you should talk to the police.”

“I know.” Mel’s voice was that of a little girl who didn’t want to disappoint a parent. “Um, listen, can you stay while I wash up? I would feel better if someone was here while I get in and out of the tub. I’m a little woozy.”

Butch glanced over at the bathroom area. That tub on its riser seemed to be spotlit. On a stage. With a full orchestra.

“You won’t see anything, I promise,” Mel said with exhaustion. “I just don’t want to slip and fall and have no one around to know about it.”

Butch put his back to her and jacked up his leathers. All he wanted to do was leave. “Okay.”

“I won’t take long.”

“I’ll keep looking at your clothes.”

The sound of rushing water made him glance at the heavy door they’d come through. The locking mechanism was not a bog-standard dead bolt. Hell no. It was a bifurcated iron bar with a crank mechanism in the center. When you rotated the gear, the horizontal pegs plugged into brackets mounted on both sides of the jambs. Nobody was getting through that setup. Not unless they came with a battering ram.

Mounted on the front of an Army tank.

“How did you find this place?” he asked as he checked out some slacks. “I mean, is this living space even legal? It’s in a commercial building.”

“I am allowed certain—” She hissed on an inhale. Then cursed softly.

When she didn’t say anything else, he glanced behind himself. She was by the tub and facing away from him, struggling to unhitch the fastenings on her bustier with hands that were cranked around back to her shoulder blades. As a result of her contorted quarter-turn, the swell of her breasts and the drift of her hips was obvious… but that wasn’t the half of it. She had taken off her ruined panty hose and her skirt, nothing but a slide of black silk covering her bottom.

Butch looked away. Rubbed his face. Stared at the industrial door.

“Do you need help with that?” he asked roughly.

* * *

Technically, Syn was out in the field.

As he and Jo walked around a flat clearing large enough to host multiple games of soccer or football, he had springy, winter-dead grass under his boots, and there was a cold breeze in his face, and across the meadow bare-limbed trees stood at attention around the edges of the acreage.

Sure, okay, fine, it was just a field, instead of the field, but beggars/choosers/all that shit. Besides, he didn’t care if it was a playing field, a park lawn, or this scruffy, crappy expanse of formally-used-as at this abandoned school, he was not leaving Jo’s side. Slayers could be anywhere, and they would recognize her for what she was, even though she didn’t have a clue about her nature.

Yet, he reminded himself. She was going to turn and then…

Yeah, and then what? he thought. Happily ever after for the pair of them? Hardly.

“This is a waste of time,” she announced as she stopped and made a three-sixty.

Fuck.

When she put her hands up to her head, he said, “You seem exhausted. How about we go back?”

“If I could only get my brain to stop.” She dropped her arms. “I mean, there’s nothing here. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Let’s go back to the car.”

Jo looked over at him and a breeze teased out a strand of her hair. “You must think I’m nuts.”

“Not in the slightest.”

Her green eyes drifted to a ruined structure of some kind, its roof torn up, one wall collapsed into a collection of rotted, loose lumber that looked like a set of bad fangs.

“In the video,” she said, “something like that was attacked by the dragon. It was a shed, or… and…”

Syn had sworn to himself he wouldn’t touch her. He broke that vow by putting his arm around her waist and steering her away from what troubled her.

And, to be fair, what troubled him as well. He knew exactly what had attacked that out building. Rhage’s beast. But he couldn’t tell her that.

“You’re cold,” he said.

“Am I?”

“Your teeth are chattering.”

As he started them back up the hill, she touched her lips. “They are?”

He nodded and kept them ascending at a steady pace. He hadn’t minded the walk around with her. They had plenty of privacy, and his instincts, which he trusted more than any other thing about himself, were not firing, not yet: There were no scents on the air that shouldn’t have been there. No movement in the shadows that his keen eyes caught. No sounds other than, off in the distance, the occasional passing car on the city road they’d come in on.