by Sarra Cannon
Her knuckles whitened where she gripped her phone. “Troll hunting.”
Mom hadn’t known who or what Macsen was when they got involved. Not until I came along and wrecked their relationship.
Half-bloods were either born null, or they inherited a portion of their fae parent’s power. That meant Mac had to fess up or gamble that I would take after Mom instead of him. Lucky for us, he wasn’t a betting man and left her with a contact number—Mable’s, actually.
The slip of paper had gathered dust inside a teacup in Mom’s china cabinet until the night she came home from work and found me sitting in the floor in my bedroom surrounded by the corpses of my soulless best friends. They came for my thirteenth birthday party, slept over and thanks to me, left in body bags.
Happy birthday to me.
Before Mom called the cops, she dialed that faded number. Shaw came for me, that’s how we met, and he brought marshals with him to clean up the mess. I was bleeding magic I had drunk down so many lives, and Shaw took away that pain with a touch that burned clear to my soul.
A bond forged between us that night. Or I thought it had.
Rubbing a tender spot over my breastbone, I looked up to find Mom staring at me. “Have you had breakfast yet? I was just thinking it was eight...”
“And that the doors are already open at Jose’s?” She waved her cellphone at the birds. “Get rid of this poopfest, and I’ll drive out to the cantina and pick up breakfast—my treat.”
My stomach rumbled at the mention of my favorite Mexican restaurant. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Good.” Tension eased from her shoulders. “I’ll go shower and call in the order.”
Once she returned to the house and shut the door behind her, I dialed my roommate’s number.
A sluggish growl answered me.
“You weren’t asleep, were you?”
Her low groan earned my sympathy.
“I need your help.”
“Whph?”
“Where am I?” I pumped my fist. I had her. “I’m at Mom’s. So are like a hundred bespelled birds.”
“Hmph?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in later.”
A long-suffering sigh I took as a yes blasted my ear.
“See you in a few.” I ended the call and leaned against my car, thinking.
Mom reemerged wearing navy capris, a navy and white striped tank top and matching flip-flops. I waved bye as she slid behind the wheel of her burnt-orange mini Cooper and backed down the driveway past me.
While I waited on Mai to climb out of bed, get reacquainted with her pants and make the fifteen-minute run from our apartment to Mom’s house, I snapped a picture of the lawn and texted it to Shaw with the caption We need to talk. Then I plugged headphones into my cell and blared Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ “Don’t Come Around Here No More” to drown out all the racket.
Chapter 7
About the time I began worrying Mai had fallen back asleep, sharp teeth sank into my ankle, and I yelped. A dainty red fox sat on her haunches beside me. Twitching her bottlebrush tail, she yipped twice while narrowing her large golden eyes on my headphones. Oops.
“Did you have to bite me?” I unplugged and tucked away my phone and earbuds. “Damn it, Mai, that hurt.”
She bared pointy teeth as if to say I’m here, now what?
“It’s not my fault you went running with what’s-his-name last night instead of climbing into bed at a decent hour,” said the roomie who had been out chasing a bonus check all night.
Her ears flattened against her skull.
“Fine. Here’s the deal. We get rid of the birds, and Mom pays us in huevos rancheros and fajitas.”
Counting on Mom to over-order, I figured I would split my take with Mai.
Mai huffed out a gusty sigh. Her sleek ears swiveled as the birds flapped their wings or hopped in place, reacting to the predator in their midst. I began doubting they could leave, wondering if they were magically adhered to the grass and if there was an undetectable spell invoked here, until a series of rapid-fire yips preceded a bolt of orange-red fur that pounced into the fray wearing an all-too-human grin.
Utter stillness reigned. Three, two…
Feathers exploded in an upward torrent of frantic corvids desperate to escape the kitsune’s jaws.
Mai snapped her jaws then, caught one by its tail feathers and flung it side to side before moving on to her next victim.
Five minutes later, the lawn was clear, and Mai flopped onto the grass panting.
“Good work.” I walked over and stroked her head. Her fur was warm silk under my fingers. “You should get changed before Mom gets back. She’s had enough excitement for one day.” After dealing with the birds, if she caught Mai mid-shift or just plain naked, she might flip. I went to the fence and let Mai into the backyard. “The patio doors should be unlocked. I’ve got spare clothes in the bottom of the bureau in my old room. Take whatever you want.”
With an imperious flick of her tail, Mai hefted herself onto her feet and trotted past me.
By the time Mom returned with breakfast, her yard would be back to normal, making it easier for her to pretend I was too. She never asked me for specifics on Mai, so I never confided in her that my best friend was a kitsune, an ancient breed of fox shifter, who shared my love of the nightlife and steaks with plenty of moo left in them.
Mom needed Mai to be an average young woman of Japanese descent. Not another fae like me.
So we all faked it.
Sometimes, even if it was a lie, it felt nice being normal.
— —
After eating with Mom, I gave Mai a lift back to our apartment. With our bellies full of fajita, I proclaimed it siesta time. I got one foot through the door before Mai kicked off her borrowed flip-flops and faced me.
“Is there something not feathery you’d like to talk about?” She set her hands on her slim hips. “Before you even consider lying, you should know I smell his lure all over you.”
Busted. I shut the door and slumped against it, brought my keys up and used one to scratch off my flaking nail polish. “Shaw’s back.”
“And?”
I blew glittery flakes from my thumb onto the floor. “We bumped into each other this morning.”
The urge to caress the still-tingling spot where he had fed was an itch in my palm. I resisted because the last thing I wanted was anyone’s pity.
Just as I feared, Mai’s warm brown eyes softened. “How awkward was it?”
“As awkward as you can imagine times two.” I hung my keys on a hook by the door. “We talked. We’ve established boundaries that should prevent any more black marks on either of our records.” I tugged down my ponytail and massaged my aching scalp. “We can make this work.”
“Yes,” she added her support, “you can.”
“We have to.” Might as well put it all out there. “We’re working a case together.”
A slow whistle slipped past her lips. “The magistrates didn’t waste time pairing you back up, did they?”
Magistrates. Right. They didn’t know our breakup was the reason Shaw had transferred.
“It wasn’t official.” I mumbled, “It was voluntary.”
“In that case…” She ducked into the kitchen and returned with two bourbon glasses filled to the brim with smoky liquid. “Tell Auntie Mai all about it.”
I accepted the glass with a grateful nod, took a deep pull of the crisp, fermented drink and sighed as warmth spread through my chest. “Sweet Dreams?”
We plopped down onto the red brocade couch Mai had inherited from an older sister.
“Yep.” She drained her first glass with a hiccup. “Brewed by narcoleptic pixies under a full moon.”
I snorted.
Rumor had it drool from sleeping pixies gave the wine its special properties. I didn’t care. What mattered to me was its subtle sleep enchantment would burn clean through the night—or the day in our case. A few sips t
ook the edge off, weighted your eyes and fuzzed your mind. Tossing back a full glass was like cutting lines and snorting dust straight from Mr. Sandman’s personal stash.
Shifting toward me, Mai poured herself another. “Still waiting here, Tee.”
One more sip to wet my lips, and I spilled the gory details of my day. O’Shea. The poacher. Shaw. I wrapped it all up at the point where I called her to come help me at Mom’s.
“Just remember you’re not a trainee anymore, you’re a full-fledged marshal.” Mai ran a finger along the rim of her glass. “Shaw has seniority, and the conclave bylaws are all in his favor. If you two bump heads—or anything else—you’re the one they’ll reassign this time.”
Coming off a recent transfer, even a voluntary one, meant he was ineligible.
“I know, I know.”
“At least you have romantic drama.” She sank lower into the cushions. “I got nothing.”
“Nothing?” My head jerked toward her. “You’ve gone out every night this week.”
Her eyes went liquid. “He failed the test.” Grabbing my glass, she drained it too.
Fail a kitsune’s test, and you lost her respect. One and done, it was over. No second chances.
“Ouch.” I winced. “I’m sorry. You really liked him, huh?”
“He was a nice guy,” she slurred. “A goblin, but the hot kind.” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth then fingered her lips like they had gone numb.
“Another goblin?” That made three in as many months. “Labyrinth much?”
She held up three fingers. “Two words—codpiece.”
“That’s one word.” I pried the glass from her hands before she dumped it on the carpet.
Mai had an unholy obsession with eighties fantasy movies. Labyrinth was her favorite. She was madly in lust with David Bowie’s character, Jareth the Goblin King, who was famous for his tight tights, smoldering stares and a very, ahem, generous codpiece.
Her head fell back while she twisted silky chestnut strands of hair around her pinky.
“Goblins are…” She stabbed a finger toward the ceiling. “They’re hot.”
“Uh-huh. Sure they are.” I clapped my hands. “Okay, time for all foxy ladies to go to bed.”
The noise spooked her, and the next thing I knew a heavy-lidded red fox lay curled on top of Mai’s clothes.
Tempted as I was to move her to her own bed, she hated being carried as a fox, and I hated getting bitten even more. Guess she was crashing on the couch. I left her pawing a shirt while she nested.
“Sleep tight,” I called on the way to my bedroom.
The bathroom earned a covetous glance from me as I passed. I ought to shower. I reeked of black magic, troll and worst of all, Shaw. But my feet were on autopilot, and the wine was telling me that my bed sure looked good from here. A shower could wait. First I needed sleep to dull the night’s sharp edges.
My shins hit the mattress, and I flopped face-first onto my bed.
Bump. Bump. Bump.
My eyes closed long enough to burn when I rolled over and opened them to glare at the ceiling. Must be moving day for the upstairs neighbors. Great. Perfect timing. Today of all days. Working third shift in a first-shift world sucked.
I shut my eyes and thought peaceful, soothing thoughts until sleep teased the corner of my mind.
Nope. Heavy footsteps tromping overhead jarred me wide awake.
“Can’t you stomp any louder?” I fisted my pillow and flung it at the ceiling. “Not like I’m trying to sleep down here.”
A chair scraped over the floor. Then blessed silence.
I closed my eyes, pressed the pillow over my face and breathed in the scent of mountain spring fabric softener.
Caw.
I jerked upright, and the pillow dropped onto my lap. Across the room, a large black bird hovered outside the glass. Its eyes were ruby red and sharp as the talons clenching the narrow windowsill. Its massive wings flapped as it struggled to perch. When it settled, it tapped the glass with its thick, weathered beak until I slid out of bed and eased toward the window. With glass between us, I could act brave even though my fingers shook when I tested the sturdy lock.
Reassured, I crossed my arms. “Who are you?”
The bird tilted its head to and fro, examining me. Its bloodstained gaze flickered to the latch.
“That’s not going to happen, bird boy.”
Some things, bad things, required an invitation to enter your home. Grant permission once and they never had to ask again. Rescinding the offer was difficult and, in some instances, impossible.
I tapped the glass in front of his face. “What do you want?”
His ear-splitting squawk made my ears ring as he hopped from the ledge and glided out of sight, taking any chance of me sleeping along with him.
Chapter 8
A text from Shaw woke me five minutes before my alarm buzzed.
Yes, we do.
Three words. That was it.
Unimpressed with how the night was starting, I took a scalding shower and dressed for work. After three powdered donuts, I stopped growling. Of course, that might have had something to do with the five cups of coffee I washed them down with before texting him back with a mood appropriate emoji and thumbing through the FTAs Mable had assigned me.
After an hour passed without a response from him, I turned off my cell, grabbed my keys and messenger bag, and headed out the door. I might as well earn some easy money while I waited.
A quick drive across town brought me to one of those Happy Planet Recycling Centers popping up all over southeast Texas. The owner, Mathew Davis, was my fugitive for the day. Davis was a registered hobgoblin, a trickster fae, who got his kicks slathering on glamour and fooling humans into thinking he was one of them. Usually hobs were harmless pranksters, more of an annoyance than a real threat. But Davis had a mean streak. According to his file, he preferred shenanigans his victims didn’t survive to laugh off.
Oh joy.
With a recycling empire at stake, Mable was betting he would come peacefully.
Hey, a girl could dream.
I stepped inside Davis’s flagship building and into some kind of freakish after-hours’ party.
A portly nude hob zoomed past me riding a scooter. I wrinkled my nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Watch out, toots.” He shook his gnarly fist at me. “You’re standing in the middle of the track.”
Glancing down, I spotted the dotted and dashed chalk lines of a racetrack under my foot.
A second hob shot past wearing goggles, followed by a third and fourth wearing nothing at all.
I found somewhere less nauseating to look and called out, “Mathew Davis?”
One of a dozen hobgoblins—sans glamour—skidded to a halt with the plastic bottle he had been using as a bat raised over his head. Each of his ears was larger than my whole hand. His eyes were a dazzling shade of blue, his skin a grayish warty hide with thick purple hairs sprouting down his arms. His head reached my waist. His stomach was round and taut, his arms spindly and his knees knobby.
“Mathew Davis.” He leapt from his scooter and danced a little jig. “At your service.”
“Hi, Mr. Davis.” I avoided eyeing his free swinging bits. “I’m Thierry Thackeray, the marshal assigned by the conclave to work your case.”
The other hobs sucked in a collective gasp and scurried like roaches into the darkened corners of the massive warehouse. Their chattering made it difficult to hear what Davis said next, but whatever it was sent waves of hysterical laughter crashing through the room as the other hobs bum-rushed me.
Before I could react, they knocked my knees from under me and hefted me up on their bony shoulders. The nearest male whacked my forehead with an empty two-liter bottle similar to Davis’s.
Davis executed a perfect back handspring, landing on a fellow hob’s shoulders and cinching his sinewy thighs around the poor guy’s head. Fisting the red tufts of hair curling out
of his friend’s ears, Davis guided his mount—who neighed at me—toward a newly chalk-lined section of concrete floor.
“Come back later, lassie.” Davis smacked his mount’s ass with his bottle. “I’m busy just now.”
The sea of hobs washed me past Davis and right out the rear bay door. They tossed me from the dock, where trucks dropped off containers, into a metal box stuffed full of cans waiting to be crushed. The impact knocked the breath out of me.
Metal groaned and casters squealed. I tilted my head back as they slammed the rolling bay door shut behind me.
“I could make them pay for that.”
The simple offer hung suspended on a rich breath of wood smoke.
I bolted upright as cold sweat drenched my shirt. “Who’s there?”
No one answered.
I shoved to my knees inside the shifting container. “I said—who’s out there?”
“Didn’t you get my text?” a graveled voice called.
The tension pinching my chest eased enough I could breathe again. “Shaw, texting someone Yes, we do is not the same as Meet you soon or See you at seven.”
His hands appeared on the lip of the container. One harsh grunt later, his upper body popped into view. His forearms rippled with muscle when he locked his elbows, suspending himself across from me. He stared down as I knelt on the crinkly aluminum carpet. “What are you doing in there?”
Heat rushed into my cheeks. “How did you know where to find me?”
He found his footing on the side of the container and shifted closer. “I asked you first.”
“Congratulations.” I tossed a few can tabs like confetti into the air. “Your prize is…answering my question.”
“My phone was off when you sent the picture.” His lips twitched. “I texted you earlier, but all I got in response was a smiley face flicking me off with one hand while drinking coffee from a mug in the other.”
Eyes wide, I tried for innocence. “My thumb must have slipped.”
“I figured.”
“You should have texted me back.”
“And risk your thumb slipping again?”
I lifted my chin like the thought never would have crossed my mind.
