Mye grabbed her modified air pistol, scoffing at his brass knuckles and ragged attire.
He didn’t stand a chance against her.
Electricity flickered from the taser to her left, coming closer with each passing second.
She spun around, aiming the pistol at Chelsea.
“Chelsea.” The shifter spun around, aiming the pistol at Chelsea. “You’re out of your territory. Take Desmond and crawl back into the unholy cesspool you came from. Better yet, go jump off a bridge. You’ll do everyone a favor.”
“Tch.” She spat on the ground. “We hate the yuppies here, too. Maybe we’ll make a profit after twisting the Underboss’s arm.”
Mye scrunched her nose, holding in her laughter.
He’d never deal with these trashy scumbags.
Chelsea doused her horrendous stench in obnoxious flowery perfume. If a shifter laughed at it, so would a vampire—dhampir—whatever he called himself. He’d take offense to her attire.
No one took emo kids seriously.
Besides, didn’t old vampires treat everyone like children? That’s what manga depicted. Alucard from Hellsing treated his police girl like his own daughter. Between reading manga and comic books, she knew how vampires and the supernatural worked. They weren’t like those Twilight fogies.
Real vampires never sparkled.
“Stay on task.” Desmond inched closer to Mye’s side. “We’re supposed to keep the bitch busy. Once we nab her, we can negotiate with Lim to bring him back. I’m sure he’ll accept our offer. He always needs money for her special meds.”
She crouched, pointing her gun at him. “Drop dead and go back to Central Baltimore. Or did you piss off the wrong people because you’re dealing to underage children?”
“Your morality holds you back.” The other woman spoke in a pissy tone. “The market’s stale, stupid bitch. We’ll sell to anybody. Most of the Underground has gone soft as far as children are concerned, so they’re great for business.”
What a deluded fool. Anyone who harmed children committed a grievous sin.
“You know, it’s a shame.” Chelsea’s voice turned sympathetic. “You’re holding yourself back. You’d make a killing. You and Lim.”
Now, it made sense.
She was the one who convinced him to sell drugs to children.
A hard punch connected with Mye’s right shoulder, knocking her off balance.
She leaned forward, then pointed the gun at him.
They wouldn’t get the upper hand here.
“Aw, you’re so pissy.” Desmond kissed his brass knuckles, then shoved it inside his leather pants. “Lim sold to children before he gained a conscience, sweetheart.” He ran a hand through his greasy hair, wiping dandruff off his black bomber.
Damn, Desmond didn’t change at all. His hygiene still stunk.
“Since you’re here, I need him for one last job.”
She clenched her jaw. “No.”
“He’ll make more money working for me. Your medical bills aren’t cheap. I wouldn’t let him take ten percent again. I’d—”
“I don’t accept blood money.”
“Racing is considered blood money.”
“No, it isn’t.” She curled her upper lip. “I’m not killing people to earn my wages.”
Desmond laughed. “That’s not what I heard.”
“I think she’s afraid her mysterious rogue agent might get whacked, Des.” Chelsea turned up the taser again. “Or are you scared he’ll arrest Limmy again?”
Honestly? Both.
Another arrest would land him in prison for good.
They hovered around her, holding her in a pincer stance. Their scents—already rancid—turned into something akin to passing by week old garbage sitting out in triple digit weather.
People’s scents deepened from one of two things: anger or fear.
They had both.
Not a good combination.
The screeching noises from the taser grew louder, as if in tune with Chelsea’s turbulent emotions.
She rushed her.
Mye slid out of their grasp, snickering at the aftermath as they went down in a heap.
Team Rocket had nothing on these two.
She headed toward the Mistress with a resigned sigh. Nothing went right tonight. No one let her decide anything or have a voice. Everyone planned everything for her. Between Armandi’s outrageous stunt, then dealing with this world’s version of Team Rocket, she couldn’t handle anything else.
Another piercing scream came from inside the bar. So much for ending her night on a good note.
Mye ran, shoving the double doors aside. The world turned chaotic when she sprinted up to the bar. Fear hung in the air. It almost overrode the Blue Label, Don Julio, and Patron along with some of the patron’s offensive natural body odor.
No. It did more than that.
Fear drained the life from this place.
She sniffed again, warding off a cold chill.
Copper filled her nostrils.
Shit. There wasn’t much time.
Mye headed toward the back. She stopped at a group of patrons huddled around the last booth.
A young woman was on the floor, gasping for air.
One of them moved, muttering the Lord’s Prayer under his breath.
Not a good sign.
She moved closer.
Blood trickled from the victim’s trembling mouth.
The woman convulsed, gave a death rattle, and went limp.
Goddammit. Now she had a homicide to investigate, too.
This night would never end.
Mye dug in her purse for her black, padlocked box, blocking out the chaos around her. She dropped her tools and five blood vials on the floor. Time was off the essence.
If she didn’t get a viable blood sample before the victim’s body temperature turned cold, then it’d be useless.
She wrapped a tourniquet around the victim’s arm, waiting for a vein to appear.
Screw it. She shoved the butterfly needle into a good vein.
She changed each tube with precision, closing the victim’s eyes between sessions. Whatever killed her acted quickly.
What got her, though?
Cyanide?
No. Chelsea wouldn’t carry poison on her.
Drug overdose?
Plausible.
The woman exhibited several key symptoms during her demise.
Mye sealed the last tube, then released the tourniquet, shoving it back into her purse. After that, she reached back inside and grabbed a thick Sharpie.
Someone tapped her shoulder. She raised her head.
Marco wore a grim expression on his face.
“Donna.” He straightened his dark blazer, pointing toward the entrance. “The boss called your fed. He’s on his way here.”
Great. Fucking great.
He’d fight about Lim.
She glowered while labeling each bottle and carefully putting them in her purse.
Her brother wasn’t behind this. He couldn’t be. His behavior evened out over the last month. He helped her with the family business without taking bribes and started patching up his relationship with Maurice.
Mye grabbed her gun and headed to the door.
No one could touch Lim.
They’d have to kill her first.
3
Travis teleported into a cacophony of screaming and stampeding patrons inside the Tethered Mistress’s parking lot.
Despite the return of his raging headache, he preferred the chaos to unsettled silence. Detectives thrived on the hustle. The bustle of serving the public. The mystery of whodunnit in every homicide case.
Ah. Those were the good old days.
He rubbed his badge inside his pocket. He’d be a detective no matter the uniform he wore.
Time to get to work.
He held his head and squinted while people ran past him. Their voices jackhammered around his brain. This pain paled in comparison to construction workers drilling co
ncrete.
Headaches—normal headaches—could be cured with two Tylenol and a shot of rum. Magically induced headaches didn’t have any preventative or abortive medications.
No. This was a mage’s personal hell. A debilitating hell.
Jesus Christ.
He’d conquer this challenge yet.
He cast his hand out, probing one of the fleeing patrons minds.
Someone died. People suspected each other. No one helped the woman who choked to death inside the sports bar. No one questioned anyone except for a familiar brunette with dangling silver earrings and her cursed flower power bellbottoms.
She knelt next to the woman and pulled something out of her huge purse.
He’d found Mye.
His partner—or rather, perpetual trouble magnet—knew how to make an entrance. If she killed someone on his first week back from medical leave, they would have words.
Scathing ones.
Now he knew how Tessa Mona felt whenever she had to finish one of his last-minute incident reports for him.
He lowered his head and weaved through the crowd. Humans couldn’t handle death well. However, he had no choice. Death was a packaged deal between his magic and both jobs. An assassin didn’t make a living saving his victims. Not a successful one, anyway.
He’d worry about their dead victim later. He had to meet Mye first.
His hand brushed against the body of a car. He held himself upright while weathering the telepathic storm. Once it eased, he groaned at the Ferrari beside him.
Damn. He couldn’t catch a break.
He patted his coat pocket, then pulled out her spare key. Her car was the perfect Faraday cage against electrical disturbances. Maybe it would help against telepathic attacks, too.
Good excuse? Nah.
She’d still get pissy about him breaking into her precious Jet.
He unlocked the Ferrari and slid into the driver’s seat, resting his head against the leather steering wheel. Cold sweat dripped down his neck. The corner of his mouth twitched.
His head stopped pounding.
He probed the crowd again.
This time, he pulled back when his target panicked. Their emotions didn’t piggyback on him. Not like last time. They had overwhelmed him.
This time, he could delve into their innermost thoughts. Their deepest fears. Their insecurities and failures. All their secrets were at his fingertips.
Dread turned to euphoria.
No wonder humans feared mages. They could learn about their target in seconds. While he needed Peters’s hacker skills, this newfound power would prove useful whenever he dealt with his feline partner.
She’d never lie to him again.
Well, she could try. She omitted information whenever she deemed it necessary.
Now he had an edge over her. He wouldn’t be in the dark again.
Right. And she’ll become best friends with my brother, too.
Okay. Lyssa had a point there.
Travis held his breath, then counted to ten. This new ability wouldn’t hinder him. He’d take ten, clear his head, and—
Something banged against the car window.
There’s a man at the door.
Travis turned his head.
A brown-haired man scowled before he crooked his finger at him. He pulled a key out of his pocket.
Fan-freaking-tastic. How would he explain this incident to the director?
Director Wilkerson was more understanding than Sanderson but Travis had stolen the car from the impound lot and gave it back to Mye. Muscle cars were outlawed. Owning one was a felony. They broke the law when Sanderson ordered him to return her vehicle.
Now, he sat in aforementioned vehicle, trying to collect himself, before meeting the troublesome shifter.
Travis flung the door open, but a viable excuse wouldn’t come to him. The truth would piss Wilkerson off. He hated magic. Detested it. If he told the truth, he’d lose his day job. Then he’d be short on rent. Again.
His landlord didn’t like him enough.
“Director.” Travis spoke in a neutral tone. “I thought you’d arrive before me.”
A tight-lipped frown crossed the mustached man’s face. “I did. Why is Mye’s car here?”
“Ah—well—”
“She’s just like her goddamn mother.” Wilkerson kicked a tire. “She’s always endangering herself. Then she runs into you.”
The older man gave a low growl.
“She’s always been a rebel. Those friends of hers led her astray. She never listened to anyone. Well, except her dead mother and the fucking pothead. And that asshole husband of hers. Never mind I’m her fucking father.”
Oh boy. Talk about airing someone’s dirty laundry.
Mye’s skeletons came out of the closet.
This wasn’t one skeleton, either. This went past being an awkward bombshell. Awkward wasn’t the right word. Mind-blowing didn’t fit, either. He never talked about his family at the office.
Ever.
The family resemblance showed. Wilkerson had the same condescending look as his gutsy daughter. Those acrimonious blue eyes pierced through him. His worry lines deepened around his forehead. They even had the same stance when addressing someone. Creepy.
She lacked his dimples, though.
He had to admit, the vandyke look suited the director. It made him suave. Sophisticated. Powerful in a corporate executive kind of way. Maybe that was why he always slept with his secretaries.
Those women fell for his rugged charms.
“Ah, sir … with all due respect…”
“You never follow instructions.” Wilkerson rubbed his scalp. “Use people’s codenames, remember?”
If Travis followed them, he’d call Peters P for Prick.
Everyone else did.
“Fine.” He brushed his stringy, dirty blond hair out of his face. “But you didn’t mention anything about being related to Mye when you assigned us our case last month.”
“I didn’t think you’d arrest her.”
“She resisted arrest.” Travis’s voice became heated. “She almost achieved vehicular homicide. Then came her poisoning me. Let’s not forget that small detail.”
Wilkerson’s worry lines became more prominent around the corners of his mouth. “You deserved it. You should have prevented her from meeting with Sanderson.”
The agent fingered his gun. “Believe me, I tried. Sir.”
“Bullshit.”
His boss grabbed the collar of his trench, dragged him to the building, then slammed him into the familiar double glass doors.
Damn. Wilkerson had a powerful grip.
A shifter’s grip, no less.
“What the hell happened to you two?” The larger man pinned him to the doors. “You’re both acting weird. Well, Peters freaking out about everything on the planet is a daily occurrence, but you’re acting weirder than usual. You listened to me for once.”
Note to self: stay rebellious. Quit answering his Blackberry. Also, never piss his boss off in person. He was a scary man whenever he became angry. Handcuffs wouldn’t restrain him.
Next paycheck, he’d buy mace.
Wilkerson punched the door, shattering the glass. “I’m tired of these asinine games.”
“Me too.”
“Then answer the fucking question.”
“There’s a dead woman inside.” Travis thumbed behind him. “Maybe we should—”
“I didn’t mention a dead body.”
Damn.
There went his newest secret.
“Did my daughter call you?”
He could have lied but shook his head instead. “No.”
“Then how did you—”
“I’d … rather not say.”
Wilkerson gave him the stink eye. “Out with it.”
Screw it. No more playing nice.
Travis summoned power to his hand. “Tell me why you’re here, sir.”
His mouth went dry. He never attacked
his bosses. They signed his paychecks. They made sure he kept a personal relationship with Captain Morgan and Jack Daniels every Friday night. Without booze and coffee, he couldn’t handle his crazy partners or bosses.
Wilkerson couldn’t learn about his dirty little secret.
Power travelled throughout his body, blazing through him like a priest using holy magic to exorcise a sinner from a terrible curse. He became Christ’s templar.
Nothing would stand in his way.
His dead wife’s ghost chuckled. Not quite darling. Nice try though.
Drat. Lyssa always ruined his fun.
“Chill, magic man.” His boss backed away. “I came to give you something important.”
He pulled a miniature phone out of his blazer pocket.
“The files stored on the phone should help with your case. Familiarize yourself with them. It’s the same case Sanderson assigned you. We’re sharing jurisdiction.”
Travis snorted. They didn’t share anything by choice.
“You didn’t call me here to deliver files.” He unlocked the phone and thumbed through the PDFs. “Peters could have given this to me earlier.”
“He’s been avoiding me.”
Well, duh. The neurotic specialist detested shifters.
He flipped to one particular document, raising an eyebrow at the FBI’s official seal on the singular page. Mye’s brother had a protection order—no, a pardon—for his cooperation with their investigation.
No. Just no.
That flighty bastard didn’t deserve shit.
“Why give Dalara a pardon?” Travis swiped his finger across the phone to another file. “This is pointless.”
“I’m not honoring it.” Peters’s voice bordered between a pout and a whine. “The guy breaks parole when he tokes.”
“Tell Peters to answer his phone. You blow me off enough.”
A cat hissed over the earpiece.
Peters’s cat struck again.
“Wow.” Wilkerson smirked. “He hasn’t gotten rid of his troublesome pussycat.”
“Speaking of cats…” Travis dropped the phone into his trench. “If you’re Mye’s father, you’re a shifter, too. Question is, though, are you like her?”
“Fortunately, no. I lack her unique handicap.”
Thank goodness for small wonders.
“Still, there’s quite a few shifters scattered among the feds. You should watch out for them. As for Dalara, well, I didn’t have a choice. He’s your best link to the Zodiac Cartel. He won’t help us unless we offer something substantial in return.”
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