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topic. Wasnā€™t she going to be surprised what he brought up?

ā€œWhen we got groceries, I didnā€™t get . . . Um . . . Womenā€™s things.ā€

ā€œLike what?ā€

Did she mean to make this hard? ā€œFor your cycle?ā€

She cocked her head like she didnā€™t understand.

ā€œPeriods. Monthlies. Aunt Flow. Whatever ladies call it these days.ā€

She blinked, then understanding dawned, followed by a hint of panic in the depths of her bright blue eyes. ā€œOh. My kind doesnā€™tā€”we donā€™tā€”I donā€™t get those.ā€

ā€œLike. Not at all?ā€

Her gaze turned guarded. ā€œIrregular?ā€

Was she asking him? ā€œOkay?ā€

ā€œOkay?ā€

He hadnā€™t thought the conversation would be comfortable, but this was odd. ā€œI thought with all your bathroom breaks . . .ā€

ā€œOh, those. Yeah, I mean, thatā€™s not normally me. Iā€™m sure itā€™ll calm down soon.ā€

ā€œRight.ā€ He opened the bag of bread and stuck his hand in to grab a few slices to toast for them. ā€œOkay. I was worried. With your stomach issues and . . .ā€

No. No period. Stomach issues. Loss of appetite. Hot flashes. Didnā€™t she mention once that her chest was sore? Bigger bras.

Fuck. His wife had complained about those symptoms before. ā€œSierra?ā€ Sheā€™d know. Did she know and was too afraid to tell him? Rescuing her was one thing. Helping her get on her feet was one thing. Not knowing her background or what happened was another thing.

He didnā€™t know what it would mean if . . .

She came around the island. ā€œBoone. Are you okay? Youā€™ve gotten really pale. Youā€™re not going to pass out, are you? I canā€™t carry you to the bed.ā€

ā€œSierra. Are you pregnant?ā€

Itā€™d been easier than Sandeen thought to find a host in the middle of winter in Montana. Winter had been going for a couple of months, with a few months left to ride out. Depression was at its highest and alcohol flowed to pass the time.

Too bad the host heā€™d found was an elderly woman with a raging case of SAD and arthritis so bad the joints of her right hand were permanently swollen. Her knees ached constantly. He rubbed them as he waited behind the wheel of the hostā€™s old sedan. Heā€™d been idling outside of the store where the sylphs had reported seeing someone who fit the description of the fallen.

Heā€™d spent two days in front of the new store in town, but if he sat much longer, heā€™d have to explain to the police why an old woman was staking out the parking lot. Would downtown turn up a whole lot of nothing too? What were the chances some sylphs and an asshole symaster had seen the same person?

Sandeen had been all over the country in the last few weeks. A short, blond female in Oklahoma City had fainted when her gaze landed on a sylph. Another short dirty-blonde in Memphis had reportedly tried to communicate with a symaster thatā€™d inhabited a body. Sandeen was supposed to go to Seattle next, but that one sounded less likely. A blond female who had cried out the archmasterā€™s real name while heā€™d been nailing her via possession of the womanā€™s husband. Sandeen would rule that one out as fast as the others.

Humans werenā€™t supposed to see his kind. Neither were fallen. But Jameson had figured it out. Two fallen in such a short time? Too much of a coincidence. It sounded more like a case of Numen hubris. They wrote the fallen off as never having existed and it was biting them in the ass. Fallen werenā€™t human no matter how much the angels wished it.

But that didnā€™t mean that Sierra had ended up in a small mountain town in Montana in the middle of winter.

Still, intuition tingled in his gut. That, or the hostā€™s heartburn was acting up. Heā€™d tried having a coffee while sitting on his ass for hours, moving the car every forty-five minutes to keep from drawing attention in the tiny town. The drink had been bliss on his taste buds until the humanā€™s stomach had churned up a storm and heā€™d wanted to vomit it all right back into the cup.

The middle of nowhere in the middle of winter. It was exactly the type of place a fallen would get dumped. Andyā€™s spies mightā€™ve reported the snow on Winger accurately. So Sandeen had quit drinking the coffee, popped a few Tums, and waited.

Five more minutes and heā€™d move the vehicle again. The tank guzzled gas like no oneā€™s business and heā€™d filled it once already. He alternated between running the engine and letting the heat build, then shutting it off until the hostā€™s old bones clattered from the cold. Another trip to the gas station would drain the humanā€™s account.

He shouldnā€™t care, but heā€™d long given up on fighting the compassionate side to his nature. An abomination, his sire had claimed. Sandeen couldnā€™t be needlessly evil, and he was a shame to his realm. Except most of his kind assumed that not being needlessly evil meant he also wasnā€™t ruthless.

They would be wrong.

Sandeenā€™s gaze flicked down to the coffee. He was bored as hell andā€”

A big pickup pulled up to the pharmacy two blocks down. Heā€™d been on surveillance duty for three days. Heā€™d visited all the major places in townā€”the department store, the sporting goods store, the drug store, and an auto parts shop. Most of the cars were familiar by now. This pickup wasnā€™t.

Sandeen shifted in his seat and pulled the stocking hat down farther. If this human really could see his kind, he didnā€™t want this host outed. Who knew when Nowhere, Montana, would come in handy?

A tall man got out. A human. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he squinted against the sun. A black knit hat was stuffed on his head, but the ends of his dark brown hair stuck out in the back. The bottom of his beard brushed the top of his jacket. The passenger door opened, but Sandeen couldnā€™t see through the vehicle. The man waited on the sidewalk, his face weighed down by a heavy scowl.

The other person cleared the hood of the pickup. Petiteā€”check. Blondā€”check. For

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