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cards.
    Using my best Tarzan imitation, I swung from pipe to pipe, the hellhound barking and leaping at my every move. I half expected to see Andrew at any moment, unless he’d already skipped off with his loot.
    “Ms. Malone?”
    Shit! Andrew heard the dog. Now what? I couldn’t answer him because then he’d know I was down here.
    “Where are you, Ms. Malone?”
    I bit my lip and waited, the dog settling down enough to sit, panting, and stared up at me with its eyes glowing red. All I knew is that I had to get the hell out of there before I became Devil Fido’s chew toy. Douglas Grandville would be scraping what was left of me off the concrete for weeks.
    I was now dangling above the door that led to freedom. Once I started moving again, I was sure the hellhound would start foaming at the mouth and launch into a canine frenzy. I had to find a way outside without getting my throat torn out. Saint Geraldine’s hand shifted against my chest, and as I angled my arm to reach inside my shirt to grab it, the hand’s fingers slipped through mine and fell to the floor.
    I started to go down after it, but the beast beat me to it. Its jaws clamped on to the hand like it was a rawhide bone.
    I kicked at the dog. “Shoo! Get away from that.” It dropped the hand, but continued to guard it, making it clear he’d take my hand, too, if I were stupid enough to come any closer.
    My stomach tightened. My mission had failed. I had a choice to make: be ripped apart by a hellhound, or suffer my master’s punishment. It wasn’t a tough decision.
    While the dog occupied itself as the hand’s protector, I dropped to the ground and curled my fingers around the doorknob, giving it a twist. It opened instantly. I dived out the door and slammed it shut behind me.
    Night had fallen and stars dotted the sky with sequined brilliance that made my eyes sting. Squinting, I sprinted barefoot toward the ten-foot fence. Thankfully it wasn’t electric. I scurried up the chain link and dropped to the other side.
    I dashed for the shrubs that hid my motorcycle. Once my nose and earplugs were back in place, I fired up the Ducati. My fury was acute and focused as I said to the night, “You want that damn hand, Heinrich? Then you can come back and get it yourself.”

three
     
    IT TOOK ME TWO DAYS AND ONE CRUDDY motel to finally reach Gavin Heinrich’s sprawling estate outside metro Chicago. Riding a motorcycle through back roads and side streets to avoid detection takes its toll on a girl’s patience, but I was motivated. I’d failed to do what I was assigned and I wanted my punishment over with. But even more important than that, my seventy-two-hour time limit was just about up.
    The itching between my shoulders had increased, an unpleasant reminder of what would happen if the restrictions of my bond were stretched too far. The skin hadn’t broken yet, the tips of unformed wings waiting for an exit through bone and flesh. I wouldn’t metamorphose for another hour or so, but the shift had already started. My tattoo pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat. As much as I hated to admit it, I needed Shui. Since I was bonded to him, he was the only one who could stop my transformation.
    I stood outside the enormous mansion, once again waiting for someone to let me in. Déjà vu. But instead of politely ringing the bell, I gave the door a couple of swift kicks with my booted foot.
    The man who flung open the door with the same impatience I felt wasn’t Gavin’s butler from last week. This new one was thirty pounds lighter and at least ten years older, with thick gray eyebrows as long as whiskers on a cat. Without a word, he looked pointedly down at the shallow dent my boot had made in the varnished wood.
    “I’m here to see my father,” I said curtly and without inflection. The word father always left a sour taste in my mouth as Heinrich and I both knew it was a facade.
    The new guy scowled. “I was unaware Mr. Heinrich had any children.”
    Feeling