It was strange, strange and different, to hear four feet over two or six over four, but he'd become used to it in the past month. They couldn't leave Chicago, not yet; there was the job to do, after all, and Tungsten had never yet failed to deliver for the boss, but they could stay in Out-Town, stay on the outskirts near Doyle's place, stay out where none of the Kindred lived for fear of the sharp claws and howls in the night. She didn't ask where he was going most nights, and he didn't tell her, and that seemed to suit them fine.
Her smell was on him most of the time now, and in a vague, hazy way, that was the way it should be. He turned his head slightly to inhale it, that earthy, sweat-and-blood scent out of her hair where she lay half across his torso, and then righted himself with equanimity as she suddenly went from giggling girl to intent dynamo in a split second. It was typical of her mercurial nature, and he was not particularly worried about it until he saw the line between her brows and the distracted way she nearly ran into the wall. He sat up, blinked good-naturedly, and said, "Okay. Need your bodyguard? I might be better at it this time."
She didn't even seem to register the quip, and he heard the word Chicago before she was out the door and into the dark. A while ago, he wouldn't have chased her, would have let her do whatever it was she wanted, but something smelled wrong; that line on her face, he'd seen that before, during the time she'd been with the Ventrue. It took him very little time to be out the door after her, buttoning his pants with one hand while he loped along in her wake. At least he could keep up with her.
"Mila?" he tried, stretching his legs to keep pace. "Not that I'm ever going to tell you that you can't, but I got the impression that you weren't planning on rolling back into Kross's place any time soon. Change of plans?"