“Just play it cool until we know we’re in trouble,” I tell Marc.
He grunts a response, and we fall silent as we come up on the city limits. We’re still surrounded by trees on both sides of the narrow highway, with only a sign on the side of the road to announce we’re entering Clearhelm.
As soon as our tires cross the invisible line that marks us as now inside the city, red and blue lights flare to life behind us.
“Shit!” Flint throws up his hands. “I don’t want to spend Christmas in jail.”
“Go dark,” I command, and Marc cuts the headlights as the van lurches forward, picking up speed.
Blindly, I yank open the glove box and feel around until my hand closes around the nozzle of a flare gun. I crank down the window to let cold air blast into the cab.
“You sure you want to use that, boss?” Marc asks as he floors the accelerator toward a turn ahead, barely illuminated by the headlights behind us.
“Can’t let pretty boy go to jail,” I say as I unlatch my seat belt and lean out the open window.
Flint grabs my waistband as we take the turn on two wheels. I aim the flare gun straight ahead, wait until we even out, and pull the trigger.
A ball of white light flies ahead of us and splashes on the pavement, spreading outward to create a shimmering hole.
Flint yanks me back inside the cab and wraps his arms around me just as the front tires lurch into open air. Then, the back tires cross into the portal, and for one stomach-dropping moment, we’re in free fall.
The van slams down onto solid ground, the wheels spinning as they try to find traction, before we shoot forward once more, this time down a lone dirt road. Marc instantly lets up on the gas, and the van slows to a steady twenty-five miles an hour as he turns the headlights back on to illuminate the forest around us.
“I fucking hate portals,” Flint grumbles as he slowly untangles himself from around me.
Ignoring him, I check the rearview mirror to make sure the police car didn’t make it in after us. These temporary portals close pretty fast, but sometimes, if someone is following close enough behind, they slip through, too.
Thankfully, the road behind us stays empty.
“I hope you enjoy your beauty sleep when we get home,” Marc snaps at Flint. “Do you have any idea how much those cost?”
“Hey, I was the one who used it.” I toss the flare gun back into the glove compartment and snap it closed. “We’ve had too many run-ins with the police while on the job. That detective is out to pin something on us.”
Flint waggles his brows at me. “You mean Detective Hot Stuff?”
That earns him a glare. “I’ve never once called him that.”
“You don’t have to.” He widens his eyes and bats his lashes. “It’s all in the stare.”
I shove a hand in his face to hide his expression. “Next time, you can just cool your heels in prison.”
Laughing, he flops back against Marc, who instantly elbows him upright. “Stop it. I’m driving.”
Ahead, the headlights illuminate a tall, wrought iron gate, and Marc slows to a stop next to a security box. He rolls down his window, then leans out to punch in a code.
The gate rolls open, and he drives forward, winding up a gravel driveway to a small cabin at the end. He pulls around to the back, where the land dips to create a basement garage, invisible from the front.
Marc waits for the door to open before driving inside, where overhead lights reveal a large, open space that expands past the footprint of the cabin above. Other cars, belonging to Marc, Flint, and myself, fill the garage as well as a secondary van we use for heavy-duty cases.
When Marc parks, we climb out.
“Home sweet home.” Flint strides for the door at the back. “Last one in is a rotten egg.”
“Where do you think you’re running off to?” Marc grabs him by the collar. “We still have to clean out the back.”
Flint slumps in his hold. “Can’t we just light the damn thing on fire and be done with it?”
I stride for the supply cabinet against the wall, where mops and bleach wait. “Only if you’re planning to pay for the replacement out of your savings account.”
Flint shuffles in place, looking tempted, before he finally follows. “Next year, I’m planning Christmas.”
Chapter 4
DETECTIVE SHARPE
The buzzer for the front gate sounds as we’re hosing the bleach water out of the back of the van.
Flint tosses his scrub brush aside to glare up at the speaker mounted near the ceiling. “Who the fuck buzzes at five a.m. on Christmas morning?”
“The Ghost of Christmas Present?” I tease as I strip off my rubber gloves and toss them into the drying rack next to the sink before I pull the phone from my back pocket.
I activate the camera at the front gate to see the shadowed outline of an undercover police car.
Marc, peering over my shoulder, curses. “It’s that detective.”
“Detective Hot Stuff?” Flint jostles in for a peek. “What could he possibly want?”
“Shut up while I find out.” I wait for them to be silent before I press the little audio button under the camera and mumble, “‘ello? Who dis?”
Flint snickers at my bad acting, and Marc reaches past me to slap the back of his head. Flint swats back, and I step out of the way before they have a full-on catfight.
A shadowed figure leans out the driver’s side window. “Ms. Cay, this is Detective Sharpe. May I come up to the house?”
I look down in dismay at my cleanup gear. Answering the door in rubber coveralls won’t look at all suspicious.
“Sure,” I mumble as I walk silently toward the door at the back of the garage. “Just give me a minute.”
I hit the unlock button for the gate before slipping into the tiled bathroom. As fast as possible, I peel out of my rubber jumpsuit and try to scrub the bleach smell from my skin with an industrial, orange-scented cleaner. It just layers one powerful smell over another, but hopefully, the detective’s human nose won’t be able to distinguish between the two.
When I step out, I find Flint using a giant squeegee on the floor while Marc follows behind with a powerful air dryer. It won’t hold up to a close inspection, but the casual observer won’t notice we just finished wiping down the van.
The overhead fans have a powerful enough suction to vacuum out most of the smell, too, so anyone who comes down here will only assume we clean regularly. With all of the household cleaners and vacuums that line the wall, we have reason to smell like bleach. One of our many business fronts is a crime scene clean-up crew, after all.
Leaving them to finish things down here, I sprint up the stairs in my bra and underwear and dart down the shadowed hall. The drive up to the cabin isn’t that long, and there’s only so much time I can delay answering the door before it becomes suspicious.
In the master bedroom, I yank open my pajama drawer and tug on the first thing my hands land on before darting back out of the room.
In the hall, I run into Marc and Flint in their underwear, and Flint plucks the tie from my hair as he passes. My blond locks tumble around my shoulders and down my back, and I scrub my hands roughly through them to make it look more like I just rolled out of bed as I head for the front door.
Right on time, too, as a quiet knock sounds.
I flip on the entryway light and don’t have to pretend to squint as I unlock and open the heavy front door.
Detective Hot Stuff lives up to his name, even at five in the morning on Christmas day. His suit looks freshly pressed and fitted to his trim body, and his peacoat hangs just to the back of his knees, accentuating his height. Despite the early hour, his jaw is clean-shaven, his dark-brown hair brushed neatly, and his hazel eyes sharp.
“Ms. Cay, sorry to bother you so early in the morning.” Those sharp eyes sweep over me, and the corner of his lips tick up at my Santa duck pajama set before he schools his expression. “May I come in?”
“There’s no need,” he protests as he follows me inside and closes the door. “This shouldn’t take long.”
“It’s five in the morning, Sharpe,” I grumble as I shuffle to the kitchen. “Even if you don’t need coffee, I do.”
“Have you been in all night?” he asks before we even reach the kitchen.
I glance back at him and roll my eyes. “Did I mention it’s five in the morning?”
“We had a call over the radio.” He slips onto one of the stools at the counter. “A white van that suddenly vanished. Like a ghost.”
I give him another eye roll before shuffling over to the coffee pot and pressing the on button. It’s programmed to start at eight in the morning, so the grounds are already loaded and the water reservoir filled. “You know we’re not the only people who own a white van, right?”
He ignores my snark. “Were you out earlier? On Highway 2?”
“Doing what?” I pull two mugs from the cupboard. “Cleaning up after Santa?”
“We also had a report that a vigilante attacked a man in an alley earlier.” He props his elbows on the counter. “A slender, blond woman, a pretty man, and someone carrying a shotgun. Sound familiar?”
“Did I hear pretty?” Flint asks with way too much alertness as he breezes into the kitchen in a pair of matching Santa duck pajamas. “Oh, look, it’s Detective Sharpe.”
The way he says it makes it sound like shar pei, as in the wrinkly-faced dog breed, and the detective’s eyes narrow. “Oh, look, it’s the pretty man.”
Flint hops up on the counter, his feet dangling from the floor. “You know flattery will get you nowhere. My heart belongs only to one.”
“Come on, Flint. You have more mirrors than that.” Marc thumps into the room, his footsteps heavy even in his bare feet. He, too, wears matching Santa duck pajamas. “Is the coffee ready, yet?”
“Almost.” We don’t mess around with coffee pots in our house. When we want caffeine, we want it fast.
I pull down more mugs and line them up on the counter.
Marc leans against the counter and glowers at the detective. “A bit early, don’t you think, Sharpe?”
“I follow a lead when it comes in, no matter the time.” He studies the other men, taking in their pajamas the same way he did mine, before turning his level stare on me. “I’ve warned you before about this vigilante stuff. You’re messing with real police work, and you’re going to get hurt.”
“Don’t know what you mean.” I pull the full pot from the hot plate and carefully divide it between the waiting mugs.
Detective Sharpe takes his mug and the offered cream, adding enough to turn his coffee a pale brown. “The guy gave a good enough description that I could haul you in right now.”
“Then what are you pussyfooting around for?” Marc demands, then glares at Flint when the other man snickers.
The detective takes a sip of coffee and sighs with appreciation. “The victim has also been drinking and claimed there was a woman there who pulled off her face and grew eight feet.”
Flint leans back to prop himself up with one arm and smiles. “Aren’t you so lucky you get all the crazy cases, Detective? You must have really pissed off the wrong people at some point in your career.”
Detective Sharpe glares. “Sooner or later, you’re going to slip up, and I’m going to have the pleasure of arresting all of you.”
“Oh, admit it. You just want to see Pen in cuffs.” Flint leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I don’t blame you. Pen in handcuffs is hot.”
The detective doesn’t even have the grace to look flustered as his eyes rake over me. Not that I’m especially lust-worthy at the moment in my ducky PJs. But still. He could at least pretend he finds me attractive and isn’t just jonesing to put me behind bars.
“If I get a warrant, will I find anything in the basement?” he asks at last in a resigned tone that says he already knows the answer.
“You’re welcome to give your captain another reason to ream you,” I offer kindly. “You know how he loves wasting taxpayer’s money.”
His mouth opens before he closes it and reaches into his coat to pull out his cell phone. He glances at the screen, then stands from the counter and steps away a few feet for privacy before answering. “Detective Sharpe speaking.”
“You know, if you really want to catch his attention, you should have put on that little red, lace nightgown,” Flint whispers.
“Shut up,” Marc hisses, a gleam in his eyes as he tilts his head toward the detective.
Silent, we sip our coffees while Detective Sharpe murmurs into his phone, then hangs up and strides back to us. He downs his coffee in three gulps and sets the empty mug back on the counter before glaring at us one last time. “At least, be a little more circumspect if you’re going to keep doing this. I’m tired of driving out here.”
“What, like get superhero costumes?” Flint glances at Marc in consideration. “You could be the masked cowboy.”
“Shut up,” Marc says again, this time with more bite.
Detective Sharpe focuses on me. “Stay home. Enjoy the holiday in peace.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Flint calls after him as he strides for the door.
I wait for the whir of the lock to auto engage before I turn to Marc. “Anything we should be concerned about?”
“What was the address of the wannabe witch?” he asks.
I check my phone. “1400 Mariposa Lane.”
“Then, yay, we need to go, ASAP.” He turns and strides back toward the stairs down to the garage. “That damn girl already summoned another boogeyman. And this one isn’t being stealthy.”
Chapter 5
THE BOOGEYMAN
We take the back way into town to avoid crossing paths with the police and park the van in the cookie-cutter neighborhood behind 1400 Mariposa Lane.
Red and blue lights illuminate the sky from the next block over as we creep through the narrow alleys between houses. The police are still working on blocking off the neighbors and haven’t yet set up a perimeter.
As far as they know, this is a domestic violence call they’re answering. If possible, that’s all they’ll ever think this was, but boogeymen aren’t known for playing things low key. It’s in their nature to cause terror, and if they get loose, all hell will break loose.
Someone in power knows what’s really going on, though, since Detective Sharpe received a call. His superiors always send him out on the “woo-woo” cases, which pisses the regular police off when he shows up. It’s not like he can tell them there might be something paranormal going on. Because paranormal is for TV and movies, not for real life. And him trying to prove otherwise is what got him these shit jobs to begin with. The man should just quit, but he loves to protect and serve too much for his own good.
At the fence line that separates the backyards, Marc holds up a hand for us to wait while he grips the top of the fence and slowly pulls himself up high enough to peer over. It’s an impressive display of muscle control that makes the sleeves over his biceps strain.
Flint snorts softly. “Show off.”
“Nice show,” I murmur.
He nudges me, and I nudge him back while Marc diligently ignores both of us.
After a moment, he drops back to the ground to whisper, “Downstairs is dark, but there are lights in the upper bedrooms. No sign of the demon from outside.”
Flint and I stop playing to face forward, and I ask, “Basement?”
Marc shrugs. “No windows on this side to indicate one, but it could egress out the front.”
“Egress,” Flint mocks softly.
“Shut up,” Marc hisses.
“You shut up,” Flint counters. “No more Word of the Day calendars for you.”
I frown at Flint. “You better hide his Christmas present when we
get back, then.”
Flint’s finger flies to his lips. “Shh, you’ll ruin the surprise.”
Marc throws his head back with a groan. “Why do I feel like I’m babysitting here?”
I look down at my ducky pajamas, then over at Flint’s matching ones before I give Marc a very serious stare. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Flint tugs on the hem of his shirt. “We’re completely professional.”
With a shake of his head, Marc crouches and cups his hands together to form a step. “Pen first, then pretty boy.”
“Right.” Sobering, I double-check my shoulder holsters and the baton sheathes strapped to my thighs.
“Wait.” Flint sweeps forward to grab my cheeks and plant a wet, sloppy kiss on my mouth. When he pulls back, he licks his lips. “For luck.”
My brows arch. “You going to wish Marc good luck, too?”
Flint shakes his head. “Naw, he needs some scars to go with his cowboy look.”
Marc releases a put upon sigh. “We have business to attend to, kids.”
I reach out and ruffle Marc’s chestnut-brown hair. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you get scratched up.”
Squaring my shoulders, I plant my right shoe into Marc’s hands and grab the top of the fence.
In a fluid roll of muscle, Marc stands and thrusts upward, practically tossing me over the fence.
I land in the shadows of the backyard and step out of the way before he tosses Flint over right on top of me.
My partner in crime lands with a grunt, catching himself on one knee with his hands out for balance.
Silent, we creep forward across the lawn to the backdoor, where Flint checks the handle, kneels, then pulls a set of picks from his pocket.
Marc joins us as Flint twists his picks and cracks the door open. Flint steps off to the side, and I pull my batons as I step into the quiet house, Marc close on my heels.
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