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After they shook, John signed and Blay translated, “Not necessary. He heals lightning-quick.”

“But it’s going to need time to—” The tattoo artist leaned in and then frowned as he inspected where he’d worked.

Before the guy started asking questions, John stepped back and grabbed his shirt from Blay. The fact was, the ink they’d brought with them had been lifted from V’s stash—which meant part of its composition included salt. That name and those fabulous swirls were permanent—and his skin had already healed.

Which was one advantage of being a nearly purebred vampire.

“The tat rocks,” Qhuinn said. “It’s pure sex.”

As if on cue, the woman who he’d just balled came out from behind the side room’s curtain, and it was hard not to notice Blay’s pained expression. Especially as she slipped a piece of paper into Qhuinn’s back pocket. Undoubtedly her number was on the thing, but she really didn’t need to get her hopes up. Once the guy had someone, that was it—kind of like his sex partners were a meal that couldn’t be re-eaten and never had any leftovers. Unfortunately said Kat von D look-alike had stars in her eyes.

“Call me,” she murmured to him with a confidence that would fade as the days passed.

Qhuinn smiled a little. “Take care.”

At the sound of the two words, Blay relaxed, his big shoulders easing up. In Qhuinn-landia, take care was synonymous with I’m never going to see, call, or fuck you again.

John took out his wallet, which was stuffed with tons of bills and absolutely no identification, and peeled off four hundreds. Which was twice what the tat cost. As the artist started shaking his head and saying it was too much, John nodded at Qhuinn.

The two of them lifted their right palms at the humans, and then reached into those minds and covered up the memories of the last couple hours. Neither the artist nor the receptionist would have any concrete recollection of what had happened. At the most, they might have hazy dreams. At the least, they’d have a headache.

As the pair slipped into trances, John, Blay, and Qhuinn walked out of the shop’s door and into the shadows. They waited until the artist shook himself back into focus, went over, and flipped the lock . . . and then it was time to get down to business.

“Sal’s?” Qhuinn asked, his voice lower than usual thanks to postcoital satisfaction.

Blay fired up another Dunhill as John nodded and signed, They’re expecting us.

One after another, his boys disappeared into the night. But before John ghosted out, he paused for a moment, his instincts ringing.

Looking left and right, his laser-sharp eyes penetrated the darkness. Trade Street had a lot of neon lights and there were cars going by because it was only two a.m., but he wasn’t interested in the lit parts.

The dark alleys were the thing.

Somebody was watching them.

He put his hand inside his leather jacket and closed his palm around his dagger’s hilt. He had no problem killing the enemy, especially now, when he knew damn well who had his female . . . and he hoped something that smelled like a week-old dead deer stepped up to him.

No such luck. Instead, his cell phone went off with a whistle. No doubt Qhuinn and/or Blay were wondering where the fuck he was.

He waited a minute more and decided the information he hoped to get from Trez and iAm was more important than knuckle busting whatever slayer was hanging back in the shadows.

With vengeance flowing thick in his veins, John dematerialized into thin air and took form again in the parking lot of Sal’s restaurant. There were no cars around and the lights that usually shone up on the outside of the brick building were off.

The double doors under the porte cochere opened right away and Qhuinn stuck his head out. “What the hell took you so long?”

Paranoia, John thought.

Double-checked my weapons, he signed as he walked over.

“You could have asked me to wait. Or done it here.”

Yes, Mother.

The inside of the place was done in old-school Rat Pack with red flocked wallpaper and plush carpeting as far as the eye could see. Everything