I should explain that before I died, Nick and I had been almost friends. When I'd been attacked by the Fiends outside Kahn's Mongolian Barbecue (the heavy garlic I'd used had saved my life; the Fiends had nibbled and fled instead of really going to town on my gizzard), he'd been the cop to take my report. We'd occasionally shared a candy bar and, if not friends, had at least been friendly.
Then I'd risen from the dead and, completely unaware of my undead sex appeal, left Nick panting after me. Sinclair had to mind-wipe him, including the part about me dying.
Trouble was, it wore off. Or my mind-wipe had been stronger than the king's. Either way, we found out a couple months ago that he knew what we were, knew what we did, knew what we had done to him, and pretty much hated us.
So out of guilt, I usually try to be super nice and accommodating whenever he came around.
Except, of course, right now.
"Nobody's having any meeting until you two jerks tell me when you set this up!"
Nick arched his brows at my husband. "You didn't tell her?"
"I was hoping," he said stiffly, "she would be out shoe shopping."
"Well, the joke's on you, asshat! Ha! I went shoe shopping last week! So there!" I jerked my pointing finger away from my husband and jabbed it at Nick, who flinched. "So talk! Are you here to kill me?" (Man, the number of times I had to ask this question in a month... )
"No, my captain said I couldn't, unless I could prove in court you were a vampire."
I nearly fell down in the foyer. "What?" I gasped, barely hanging on to the doorknob.
"Kidding. Come sit down before you stroke out." Nick pushed past us and, like robots, we followed him into one of the parlors.