PRAISE FOR
THE GRENDEL AFFAIR
“Lisa Shearin always delivers a great story. Fresh and exciting, humorous and action-packed, The Grendel Affair is urban fantasy at its best.”
—Ilona Andrews, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Magic Rises
“Throw Stephanie Plum, The X-Files, and tequila in a blender and experience it all explode in your face with murder, mystery, the supernatural, tea-drinking dragons, and a hot partner who always has your back (and he might have a little more if given half a chance). Nonstop action, hilarious klutziness, romance, and lethal Lotharios everywhere. What could be better?”
—Rob Thurman, New York Times bestselling author of Slashback
“In Lisa Shearin’s SPI Files series, seer Makenna Fraser brings Southern sass, smarts, and charm to the mean streets of Manhattan as she battles monsters and other magical beings. An action-packed mix of monsters, magic, and mayhem that will keep you turning the pages.”
—Jennifer Estep, New York Times bestselling author of The Spider
“One of the best parts of being an author is getting to read books like The Grendel Affair before they’re published. One of the most frustrating parts is sitting here asking, ‘When does the next one come out?’ before book one is even in print. This was great fun, with engaging characters and plenty of fast-paced action. But seriously, when does the next one come out?”
—Jim C. Hines, author of Codex Born
PRAISE FOR THE RAINE BENARES NOVELS
ALL SPELL BREAKS LOOSE
“Exceptional . . . Shearin has proven herself to be an expert storyteller with the enviable ability to provide both humor and jaw-dropping action.”
—RT Book Reviews
“All Spell Breaks Loose not only lived up to my expectations but was even BETTER!”
—Dangerous Romance
CON & CONJURE
“Tons of action and adventure, but it also has a bit of romance and humor . . . The complexities of the world that Ms. Shearin has developed are fabulous.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“Action-packed and fast-paced, this was a fabulous read.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A great addition to a wonderful series.”
—Dear Author
BEWITCHED & BETRAYED
“Once again, Ms. Shearin has given her readers a book that you don’t want to put down. With Raine, the adventures never end.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“Bewitched & Betrayed might just be the best in the series so far! . . . An amazingly exciting fourth installment that really tugs at the heartstrings.”
—Ink and Paper
THE TROUBLE WITH DEMONS
“Lisa Shearin’s fun, action-packed writing style gives this world life and vibrancy.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Lisa Shearin represents that much-needed voice in fantasy that combines practiced craft and a wicked sense of humor.”
—Bitten by Books
ARMED & MAGICAL
“Fresh, original, and fall-out-of-your-chair funny, Lisa Shearin’s Armed & Magical combines deft characterization, snarky dialogue, and nonstop action—plus a yummy hint of romance—to create one of the best reads of the year . . . Shearin [is] a definite star on the rise.”
—Linnea Sinclair, author of Rebels and Lovers
“An exciting, catch-me-if-you-can, lightning-fast-paced tale of magic and evil filled with goblins, elves, mages, and a hint of love interest.”
—Monsters and Critics
“Dazzling wit and clever humor. It’s gritty, funny, and sexy—a wonderful addition to the urban fantasy genre . . . From now on Lisa Shearin is on my auto-buy list!”
—Ilona Andrews, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Magic Rises
“An enchanting read from the very first page . . . [Shearin is] definitely an author to watch!”
—Anya Bast, New York Times bestselling author of Embrace of the Damned
MAGIC LOST, TROUBLE FOUND
“Take a witty, kick-ass heroine and put her in a vividly realized fantasy world where the stakes are high, and you’ve got a fun, page-turning read . . . I can’t wait to read more of Raine Benares’s adventures.”
—Shanna Swendson, author of No Quest for the Wicked
“[Shearin] gives us a different kind of urban fantasy . . . Littered with entertaining characters and a protagonist whose self-serving lifestyle is compromised only by her loyalty to her friends, Magic Lost is an absolutely enjoyable read.”
—C. E. Murphy, author of Mountain Echoes
Also by Lisa Shearin
The Raine Benares Novels
MAGIC LOST, TROUBLE FOUND
ARMED & MAGICAL
THE TROUBLE WITH DEMONS
BEWITCHED & BETRAYED
CON & CONJURE
ALL SPELL BREAKS LOOSE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China
penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
THE GRENDEL AFFAIR
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2013 by Lisa Shearin.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices,
promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized
edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning,
or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers
and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61841-7
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / January 2014
Cover art by Julie Dillon.
Cover design by Judith Lagerman.
Interior text design by Kelly Lipovich.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
CONTENTS
Also by Lisa Shearin
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Ch
apter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Two Days Later
About the Author
For Derek, the perfect husband for a writer.
For my in-laws, Ron and Roma Shearin. Though to me, you’re Dad and Mom. Your love, encouragement, and support mean the world to me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Kristin Nelson, my agent. What would I ever do without you? You rock!
To Anne Sowards, my editor. You’re simply amazing to work with! And on top of everything else you do for my books, thank you for helping this Southern girl get the New York details right.
To Colleen Lindsay, Melissa Hastings, and Brad Brownson, my marketing, online promotions, social media, advertising, and publicity team at Ace Books. You guys are awesome!
To Julie Dillon, my cover artist. Thank you for bringing Mac and Ian to vibrant life.
To Mary Pell, my copy editor. Thank you for your sharp eyes and meticulous attention to detail. Your hard work made this a better book.
To Joe and Joey Romano, my fabulous father-and-son fans, for the inspiration for this book’s title (and the next two as well). Thanks, guys!
1
MOST people grabbed a coffee on the way to work. I was clinking my way to the liquor store checkout with three bottles of Jack Daniel’s. One bottle would probably get the job done, but I snagged an extra pair for insurance. There was no way in hell I was doing this twice.
The clerk’s eyes went from the bottles to me and back again before scanning them into the register.
“For the morning staff meeting,” I said. “Gets the week off right.”
The man gave me an I-just-work-here grunt. “Need a bag?”
“Got it covered.”
I started loading bottles into the messenger bag slung across my chest, winding an old towel I’d brought with me around and between them, careful to keep the bottles away from the borrowed thermal night vision goggles that were almost as critical as the booze for tonight’s job. I wasn’t far from where I was going, but I was trying to avoid any icy sidewalk accidents on the way there.
It was two days until New Year’s Eve. The temperatures hadn’t risen above freezing the entire week, and since we had gotten an extra half foot of the white stuff last night, it felt at least ten degrees colder than it actually was. Though when you added in a wind that was cold enough to give an icicle frostbite, a couple of degrees one way or another didn’t make a hill of beans worth of difference.
The liquor store was a block from the subway station, and it was only two more blocks from there to Ollie’s, so I walked and slipped and clinked. A man sitting propped against the outside of the liquor store heard that telltale sound and looked at me like he was a Lab and I’d just bounced a tennis ball. He started to get up, staggering as he did so. I pushed back my coat, giving him a good look at my gun. I wasn’t big, but my gun was.
It was also a fake.
I’d learned real quick that there was a big difference between owning, carrying, and shooting guns in the big city and doing the same back home. There were lots of rules that the NYPD got real bent out of shape about if you messed with. As a result, my new employer had yet to deem me qualified for a company-issued gun, so I’d bought myself one of those water pistols that looked exactly like a 9mm. If the sight of it wasn’t enough of a deterrent, I’d loaded it with tequila. Aim for the eyes then run like hell. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
The man looked at me for a second or two, his eyes shadowed under a tattered hat, and apparently decided that while a small blonde sporting a ponytail wasn’t scary, the gun told him the risk probably wouldn’t be worth it. He actually smiled at me through a couple of days’ worth of dark stubble as he sat back down. Good. Strange, but good. I really didn’t want to start my evening by squirting a homeless man.
I’m Makenna Fraser. I’m from a place called Weird Sisters, a small town in the far western point of North Carolina that doesn’t show up on Google Earth, was named in reference to the three witches in Macbeth, and where the first word of the town name perfectly describes most of its citizens. I’ll be the first to admit that includes me. I’m not what most people would call normal, never have been, never will be, and I’m fine with that.
Weird Sisters had been settled by the kind of people that normal people didn’t want to have living next door. Most times, they couldn’t put their reasons into words; it was more of a feeling than anything else. Other folks could put words to what they felt while in town just fine. Heebie-jeebies, the creeps, or just plain spooked. Outsiders passing through town instinctively knew whether they belonged there, or if they ought to just keep going.
Weird Sisters was said to be located on a ley line that supposedly magnified psychic and paranormal energies. I didn’t know if there was anything to that or not, but something attracted people—and non-people—to stop and stay there. Quite a few of our townsfolk didn’t exactly qualify as human. They looked human enough, and sounded like regular folks, but make no mistake—they were something else entirely.
Creatures from myth and legend are real.
Members of my family could see them for what they really were. We were what my Grandma Fraser called seers. We could see through any veil, ward, shield, or spell any supernatural could come up with as a disguise. Some used magic; most didn’t. Veils were a survival mechanism, much like how a chameleon changed its colors to blend in with its surroundings to protect itself from predators. Or how predators looked perfectly harmless until something—or someone—they wanted to eat wandered by.
Down through the years, my family has taken it on themselves to protect the prey from the predators. Since the town’s founding in 1786, there’s been a Fraser as marshal, then sheriff, and now police chief. I chose my own way to expose the truth. Supernaturals didn’t have the market cornered on predatory behavior. As a little girl, I dreamed of becoming an investigative reporter for our local paper.
But with the coming of the New Age movement, our main street became lined with shops, cafés, and tearooms populated with psychics, mediums, crystal healers, tarot and palm readers, clairvoyants, and way too much more. Between that, the influx of tourists from Asheville, and the advent of the Internet, it didn’t take long for our newspaper and its website to become just another way to market the town. And when I came back home with my shiny new degree in journalism, I realized that in a town with more than its fair share of psychics (some of whom were the real thing), unsolved crimes were few and far between.
I decided it was time for me to leave for good.
I came to New York with the dream of running with the big dogs at the New York Times, or even sticking close to my hometown roots and writing for the Weird News section at the Huffington Post. But all I could get was a job at a seedy tabloid called the Informer, where only stories like “Donald Trump Is a Werewolf Love Child” had any hope of making it to the front page. If a story was the truth, great; if not, lies worked just fine. The majority of our gullible readership thought everything we printed was the gospel truth anyway. That particular headline had been an obvious lie—at least it’d been obvious to me. No self-respecting werewolf would have hair like that. But my stories had been the truth and had the dubious distinction of having been on the front page more than once, which had been good for keeping food in the fridge, but bad for my professional pride.
I could write about the weird and the spooky because I could see it. Implying that a mob boss on trial was less than human didn’t make anyone bat an eye. Making the mistake of telling my now ex-editor that said mobster had horns and a tail, and that his lawyer was a literal bloodsucker had made me the darling of his black, profit-loving heart.
As luck would have it, that same story had also put me squarely in my
new employer’s sights. By that point, any job that’d let me regain my self-respect was a job that I’d gladly take—even if it took me back into the family business. When SPI recognized me for what I was and made me an offer, I’d literally skipped to my editor’s office to resign.
Now I work for Supernatural Protection & Investigations, also known as SPI. They battle the supernatural bad guys of myth and legend, and those who would unleash them.
My family was thrilled to hear about my new job.
And I realized I couldn’t run away from who and what I was.
Most supernaturals come here wanting the same things as the rest of us: a good job, nice house, 2.5 kids, and a dog. The others? Well, their powers are stronger here, their greed is bigger, and any treaties or bindings that might have made them behave back home don’t mean squat here. They don’t just want their slice of the American Dream; they want the whole pie, and they don’t care what they have to do, who they have to kill, or how many city blocks they have to level to get what they want.
SPI’s mission is twofold: keep the world safe for supernaturals and humans alike, and cover up the truth. Because when it comes to supernaturals, to paraphrase Jack Nicholson: people can’t handle the truth. SPI has offices worldwide, and their agents are recruited from various alphabet agencies, top police forces, and military special ops, and are supported by the sharpest scientific and academic minds.
Then there’s me.
My job as the seer for the New York office is to point out the supernatural bad guys, then step aside so the aforementioned commando-ninja-badass monster fighters can take them into custody—or if necessary, take them out. Doing my part to help keep the world safe is gratifying work, with regular pay, and my job description includes three of the most beautiful words in the English language: full medical coverage. If Bigfoot was on the rampage hurting innocent campers, I’d hunt him with a butterfly net if it meant having a dental plan.
But the bottom line was that I liked my job. Since starting at SPI, New York wasn’t just the place where I lived; now it was home, a home that seemed to have supernaturals around every corner, kinds I’d never seen before, sitting at tables in every sidewalk café, and sharing every subway car with me. You’d be surprised at how many supernaturals lived in New York—then again, maybe you wouldn’t. Perhaps that was why they liked it here; they were just another face in the crowd.
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