Night Shift

LUCKY CHARMS LISA SHEARIN

The beep from the tracking chip was continuous and the dot had stopped blinking.

Yasha pulled over where Ian indicated.

McDonald’s?

It was four in the morning. I was in a stolen bakery delivery truck that’d been nearly totaled by three gargoyles. In the truck with me were two hungover elves, a pair of stoned leprechauns with the munchies, a naked Russian werewolf, and a hot partner, who was actually more of a bodyguard, in a race against a goblin dark mage to retrieve a leprechaun prince with a tracking chip embedded in his left ass cheek.

The trail ended at a McDonald’s in the Bronx.

This had to be weird, even by SPI standards.

It was a hell of a night for my first day on the job at Supernatural Protection and Investigations.

Six hours earlier

“How the hell did you lose five horny leprechauns in a strip club?”

I paused just outside the conference room door and mentally filed that shouted little gem under “Questions you don’t usually hear in an office setting.”

Five SPI agents—three humans and two elves—stood in front of their manager, sheepish or flat-out embarrassed expressions on their faces. They looked nervous. They had every reason to be.

Their manager looked human, but his behavior—and bulging yellow eyes—suggested he might have a smidgen of ogre blood swimming around in his veins. The popular belief that ogres were dumber than a stump wasn’t true. They were raging, type A overachievers, which might be good in the corporate world but was definitely bad for tolerating failure.

“But, sir, we—”

“Don’t ‘but, sir’ me, Agent Phelps.” His voice was getting deeper, more gravelly, and definitely ogreish with each word. “You had an assignment, and since all five of you are back here, that means there are five unguarded leprechaun royals out there.”

A skinny elf opened his mouth to speak.

“No more excuses! Bodyguard means you guard that body.” The manager looked out in the hall, saw me, scowled, and slammed the conference room door so hard it shook the wall around it. It didn’t do much good, because every agent in every cube between here and the employee breakroom could still hear him yelling.

I just stood there. “I don’t report to him, do I?”

“Oh my, no,” said a petite older lady from behind me. “As the agency seer, your assignments come directly through your manager, Mr. Moreau.”

Jenny from HSR (that’s Human and Supernatural Resources) made it sound like a good thing, but I still wasn’t entirely convinced.

My manager was a vampire, and our CEO was a dragon.

It was my first day at work. First night, actually. Full moon. Busy, all-hands-on-deck kind of busy.

My name is Makenna Fraser, a small-town Southern girl with my first job in the big city; well, at least the first one I’d be willing to write home about. I work for Supernatural Protection and Investigations, also known as SPI. They battle the supernatural bad guys of myth and legend, and those who would unleash them. Bottom line, if you were human, you called the NYPD; if you were a supernatural living in Manhattan and the outer boroughs, you called SPI.

Yep, creatures from myth and legend were real.

And for them, our world and dimension now ranked at the top of their “Best Places to Live, Work, Play, and Eat” list. Unfortunately, the “eat” part often included humans.

Why all the attention? From what I understand, it all started with two little words: indoor plumbing.

Folks usually think of creatures of myth and legend as living in fairy-tale castles, enchanted forests, and having magical this, that, and the other thing—but it’s basically a medieval kind of existence. And I don’t care how it sounds in books or looks in movies, that kind of life ain’t pretty. It doesn’t matter how highfalutin a Seelie royal you are, or how much magical mojo you’ve got going on, or how much gold and jewels you’ve got piled in your treasure room, you still gotta go. So for a Seelie royal, their chamber pot might be gold, but they’re still pissing in a pot. My grandma Fraser told me that the big influx to our world was kicked off by the invention of the flushable toilet. Heck, I’d cross over for indoor plumbing.

And now that human technology had reached smartphones, tablets, and other gadgets that would have previously been called magical, there was no keeping supernaturals away. Think about it. What would you rather have: one guy singing off-key with a half-tuned lute in your great hall, or Lady Gaga, the Stones, Hank Williams, Jr., or anyone else you wanted to hear on your phone, anytime, at your fingertips? That there’s a no-brainer.

The wealthier supernaturals (Seelie Court royals and the like) or those with long life spans (or death spans, if you prefer) like dragons, vampires, and werewolves, have had time to save their pennies into hoards to be able to bankroll any lifestyle to which they wanted to become accustomed. Other less well-to-do supernaturals have come here wanting the same things as the rest of us: a good job, nice house, 2.5 kids/spawn, and a dog.

However, regardless of species—human or supernatural—there’s always a small percentage that are power hungry, megalomaniacal, or just plain bat-shit crazy. As an added bonus, their powers get a boost when they come here, which in turn has an unfortunate tendency to supersize their greed. And when the treaties or bindings that may have made them behave back home don’t mean squat here, you might as well put out a sign for the all-you-can-take-or-conquer buffet.

SPI’s mission is twofold: keep the world safe for supernaturals and humans alike, and keep humans in the dark about things that go bump in the night. SPI has offices worldwide, and their agents are recruited from the best of the alphabet agencies, police forces, military special ops, and are supported by the sharpest scientific and academic minds.

Then there’s me.

I wouldn’t be doing my new job with a gun, blade, or hand-to-claw combat.

I was the only seer in the New York office, and only one of five in the entire worldwide company. A seer’s job was to point out the supernatural bad guys, then step aside so SPI’s badass, commando monster hunters could take them into custody—or if necessary, take them out. As a seer, any veil, ward, shield, or spell any supernatural could come up with as a disguise might as well not exist. I could see right through them. I got the satisfaction of keeping the world safe, and I got full medical coverage. If Bigfoot was on a rampage hurting innocent campers, I’d hunt him with a butterfly net if it meant having a decent dental plan.

I’d gotten the grand tour when I’d officially accepted SPI’s offer—and after I’d signed a nondisclosure agreement. In blood. Mine. The head of HSR was a voodoo high priestess, which took contracts and company loyalty to a whole new level. I was supposed to have started a week ago, but HSR called me last week to say that they needed to push my start date. They were still paying me, so I was more than happy with a week’s paid vacation before I’d even started work.

“Your office is in the main agent bull pen,” Jenny was telling me as she led the way to a pair of massive steel doors. She looked human to everyone else, but I knew that she was a river hag, though “water spirit” was the more politically correct term nowadays. Though river hags mostly looked like humans anyway—that is, if you took a human, made her skin the color of the Wicked Witch of the West, and exchanged dental work with a piranha. I always thought they had to live in a body of water. Turned out any size body would do, and I’d been told that SPI had a pool in the basement for its water-dwelling employees to use during breaks. You didn’t need seer vision to spot them; they left wet footprints all over the place. During my two-week orientation, SPI’s hallways had always been dotted with those Warning: Wet Floor signs.

SPI’s New York headquarters was located under Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village. The SPI complex was deep and wide—eight stories of deep and the entire park’s worth of wide. There was a subbasement, basement, parking area, then what was called the bull pen on the main floor that was ringed with five stories of steel catwalks connecting offices, labs, and conference rooms. The bull pen was filled with desks, computers, people, and not-people. The largest shift was on duty right now—the night shift. Even supernaturals who weren’t nocturnal tended to do their thing at night. Humans were essentially the same, but without the fangs, claws, and paranormally bad attitudes.

“Our seers have always been assigned the corner office,” Jenny was telling me.

“Corner office” was right. My office was against the wall, in the corner.

“Our seers have preferred to be seated where they can see everyone,” Jenny explained at my less-than-enthused reaction. “No one else would know the difference if one of our more physically imposing agents walked up behind them, but as a seer, you see everything all the time.” The woman giggled and smiled, her perky petunia lipstick framing a mouthful of dainty fangs that were at odds with her pink sweater set and pearls. “That must be terribly exciting. How I envy you.”

I stood absolutely still as a troll who had to be eight feet tall lumbered down the aisle next to mine and into the IT department’s cube farm. He sat down in an office chair that shrieked in a torture of steel. Of course, everyone else saw a slight, blond, and bespectacled man in a white shirt, tie, and khakis.

I swallowed. “Yes. Terribly.”

Some supernaturals who could pass for human didn’t bother with glamours most of the time. They’d just use clothing to cover their more identifying features. Coats or jackets to cover wings. Hats to cover horns or pointed ears, or sunglasses to cover larger or brighter-than-human eyes.

“The human employee breakroom is around the corner and through the first door on the right. And don’t worry about human-inappropriate snacks being left on the table. We have a strict rule about food in the office. Those employees who require what might be disturbing to our human colleagues have their own breakroom. Badge entrance only.”

“So . . . if there’s Girl Scout cookies on the table in the human breakroom, they don’t contain real Girl Scouts.”

“Correct.”

I’d been joking. I didn’t think she was.

When a supernatural was predisposed to see you as food, you had to go the extra mile to earn their respect. It was kind of like a human being told that they’d be working with a cow. Aside from the obvious lack of intellect—cows being dumber than a bag of rocks—there was the whole working with your food thing. Not much incentive for respect and teamwork.

The politics of an inter-species and inter-dimensional workplace promised to keep me on my toes. I was more than thankful for my two weeks of orientation training where I’d learned more than I ever thought there was to know about supernaturals, up to and including the best way to avoid being swallowed by an annoyed lindworm, and the proper etiquette for greeting a Bolivian basilisk. Very carefully.

Mine was an empty, sad-looking desk. The name plate on the desk read: “Irvine Schremp.” Jenny quickly picked it up with an apologetic grin.

“So what happened to Irvine?” I asked.

Jenny glanced around without moving her head. “Exsanguinated by a school of giant North American sewer leeches.”

I froze. “Drained?”

“Bone dry. They even sucked out his marrow. All in less than a minute.”

Breathe, Mac. Just breathe. Full medical coverage. Full medical. It’s a good thing.

While my eyes started involuntarily darting around to find the nearest exit—just in case, of course—I saw that on the desk closest to mine was a collection of items I wouldn’t have expected to see outside a horror movie or a psycho’s happy fun-time imagination.

And a dental plan. A good one.

There were four shelves on the wall filled with everything from action figures from an assortment of fantasy and horror movies to shell casings from impossibly large guns. More than a few of the monster action figures were missing their heads, or had sharp, pointy objects sticking out of their torsos.

My confusion and concern must have been apparent.

“Desk flair,” Jenny explained. “Mementos of particularly memorable missions.”

The name on the desk plate read: “Ian Byrne.”

“He collected all this him—”

“Oh, no. If your fellow agents deem your actions deserving, they’ll give you desk flair. It’s quite the honor around here.”

This Ian Byrne had been a busy boy.

“Ian’s really good at eradication,” Jenny said.

I glanced at the nightmare-inducing trinkets. “I can see that.”

I looked around at the other field agents and their desks. The only ones that had more flair belonged to vampires and werewolves.

“Ian is the highest-producing human in the company. A real go-getter. He was a detective with the NYPD for five years and was in the military the seven before that. You’re in for a real treat.” Jenny’s green eyes sparkled with near fan-girl glee. “In more ways than one.” She lowered her voice. “You’re the envy of every succubus and half of the incubuses in the company.” She quickly held up her hands. “Though rest assured, SPI has a zero-tolerance policy in place for harassment of any kind—from sexual to trying to have a coworker for lunch.” Jenny suddenly looked distracted, tilting her head to one side. “Madame Sagadraco would like to see you now.”

“Are you telepathic?” River hags weren’t, but I could see where it’d come in handy for attracting a human who was playing hard to get to join her for a dip.

Jenny tapped her right ear with a long, pink-lacquered nail. A really pointed, pink-lacquered nail. She smiled in her cheerful flash of pushpin teeth. “Bluetooth.”

We took an elevator up to the fifth floor and the executive suite. “I’m sure Madame Sagadraco will be with you in just a moment.” Jenny gave me a little finger wave and closed the door quietly behind her, leaving me completely alone in a wood-paneled waiting area that reminded me of something out of Hogwarts.

I’d been introduced to Vivienne Sagadraco, the founder and CEO of SPI, at my final interview before being hired. Maybe she met with every new employee, or perhaps being the only seer in the New York office had earned me the special treatment. The other agents referred to her as the dragon lady, but until I’d met her in person, I hadn’t realized that was meant literally.

The lady in charge was a dragon.

She could morph in and out of human form; but as a seer, I got a clear view of what she really was.

To a normal person, Vivienne Sagadraco appeared to be a petite and attractive woman in her late sixties. My seer vision let me see a dragon with peacock blue and green iridescent scales, a pair of sleek wings folded like long shadows against her back. A faintly glowing aura around her told me that she was larger than I ever really wanted visual confirmation on.

The boss’s voice came through the partially open office door. “You’re an exceptional agent, and I believe you are also the best qualified, or I would not be asking this of you.”

“How long do you anticipate this assignment lasting?” It was a man’s voice, a man who was keeping his emotions firmly in check. Unhappy emotions.

Vivienne Sagadraco’s British accent was cool and smooth, reminding me of Judi Dench’s M about to give James Bond some really bad news. Apparently, an SPI agent was in her office and on the receiving end of some bad news right now.

Did she know I was out here? Should I close the door? Though she’d told Jenny to bring me here; and as a dragon, she had preternatural hearing. All that told me she wanted me to overhear. Though whoever she was talking to would be even less happy knowing that the newest employee had overheard him being given a crap assignment that he clearly didn’t want. I hoped I liked my first assignment better than he did.

“The assignment will last as long as necessary,” came Vivienne Sagadraco’s cool response. “I will inform you when you may resume your regular duties.”

“Yes, ma’am. I understand.” His clipped tone said he understood only too well, and he liked it a lot less.

The boss raised her voice. “Agent Fraser, if you would join us, please.”

Oh shit.

I took a breath, tried for a nonthreatening, I-didn’t-hear-a-thing smile, opened the door and went in.

“Agent Fraser, I’d like you to meet your new partner—Agent Ian Byrne. Agent Byrne, this is Makenna Fraser, your new assignment.”

Oh shit.

Ian Byrne was about six foot three with a body you couldn’t get in a gym, lean muscles coiled and ready for violence, cropped dark hair, cheekbones you could cut yourself on, and steel-blue eyes set on pissed and aimed at me. An instant later, pissed was replaced by professional. If I’d blinked, I’d have just seen professional. I hadn’t blinked, so I’d gotten the full treatment.

I stuck out my hand without looking away from those eyes. He shook my hand with a firm grip and released it. No smile, no warmth, no welcome to the company. I’d heard what the boss had told him and his response. He knew that I’d heard. Somehow I didn’t see a friendly invite to after-work drinks in my future. Ever.

This was awkward.

“Unfortunately, Agent Fraser, there is no time for further orientation or training,” Vivienne Sagadraco said. “We require your presence in the field tonight. We have a politically embarrassing situation that, left unresolved, could result in the failure of the banking system of the entire supernatural world.” She glanced at an elegant diamond watch. Dragons liked their sparklies. “In ten minutes there will be a briefing in the main conference room.” Her sharp eyes locked on mine. “I would rather the situation not be this critical on your first mission; but unfortunately, we cannot choose the timing of our crises. I am certain our faith in your abilities has not been misplaced.” The narrowing of those eyes told me loud and clear they’d better not be.

I went for a smile; it probably looked like a grimace. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

AND the awkwardness just kept on coming.

My first assignment was to locate the aforementioned “five horny leprechauns” that had vanished while in a strip club.

I recognized the five agents from the conference room, and judging by the less than friendly stares, they remembered me seeing and hearing their butts getting handed to them by their ogre manager, who had gotten a handle on his temper and was now the very picture of professional middle management, albeit with beady, yellow eyes.

Ian Byrne plus these guys equaled six SPI agents who were less than thrilled that I’d joined their ranks. I’d managed to gain half a dozen intensely resentful coworkers in less than an hour on the job, probably setting some kind of company record.

And I didn’t have to jump far to land on the conclusion that the five agents resented me because not only had I witnessed their humiliation; but as a seer, I was equipped to fix on my first night on the job what had landed them in trouble. Like any corporate newbie, I wanted to prove myself; but at the same time, I didn’t want to be that employee, the one who was followed by snide and resentful whispers wherever they went.

Vivienne Sagadraco had made it clear that failure was not an option. And being the sole employee who could see through any glamour those leprechauns could come up with, any further failure would be all mine, to have and to hold from this day forward. I wanted to keep my shiny new job. A human boss would deliver a tongue lashing, and write up an incident report for their personnel file. I wondered if vampires and dragons had a more fangs- and claws-on management style, resulting in the offending employee becoming the blue-plate special in the executive cafeteria. I knew I didn’t want to find out. And key to not finding out was to not disappoint the boss—or my manager.

The main conference room at SPI headquarters resembled a scaled-down version of the Security Council Chamber at the UN. I’d taken a tour when I’d first come to town and had decided to get the tourist stuff out of the way. That way when I got a call from back home, I could say “Been there, seen that.”

A massive U-shaped table dominated the room, with the light from a pair of projectors—one mounted in the ceiling, the other in the floor—coming together to form a hologram of SPI’s company logo, a stylized monster eye with a slit pupil. The eye slowly spun, a placeholder for whatever visuals were going to be used in the meeting. Plush and pricey executive office chairs were spaced every few feet around the table.

The five agents who were in the doghouse were wearing suits that screamed “feds”—at least that’s what they said to me based on my TV viewing. The other five agents—three men and two women, and presumably the ones tasked with cleaning up the Suits’ mess, were casually dressed. This included Ian Byrne. I hadn’t been sure what was considered approved SPI seer attire, so I went with slacks, blouse, blazer, nice pumps, along with a small silver crucifix and a water pistol filled with holy water—supernatural business casual.

Alain Moreau—aka my manager, the vampire—was standing preternaturally still and silent at the front of the room. In addition to being my manager, Alain Moreau was SPI’s chief legal counsel, second-in-charge, and Vivienne Sagadraco’s go-to guy. He wore an elegant black suit that probably cost more than my first car. His white-blond hair, pale skin, and light blue eyes reminded me of Anderson Cooper, minus the giggling and sense of humor.

After being hired and introduced to him, I’d immediately put a permanent park on any urges involving blood-sucking lawyer jokes.

Moreau quickly made the introductions. Since the Suits were in the meeting, presumably they were being given a chance to redeem themselves. That said good things about my new employer. I tried for a friendly smile at each handshake. Four of the Suits smiled back, apparently willing to let bygones be bygones. The last one decided that crushing my hand would make his ego feel better. I squeezed right back, managed not to wince, and kept right on smiling.

Asshat.

Then Moreau introduced me to the “Casuals.” Two of the men and one of the women were elves, and the remaining man and woman were human. A lot of elves found their way into police and federal agency work. For some reason, they had a thing for law and order. All of these agents seemed perfectly nice; and even better, none tried to break my fingers.

The ogre stepped forward. “Some background on tonight’s . . . challenge.”

He said that last word in a way that would easily translate to “fiasco.” Some of the Casuals were having trouble stopping smiles at the Suits’ collective expense. With the exception of the Hand Crusher, the others took the ribbing with good humor.

“Normally, SPI is not in the bodyguard business, but as a favor to the local Seelie Court, we escorted a soon-to-be-married leprechaun prince and his bachelor party buddies for a night on the town.” He glared briefly at the Suits. “Apparently, the prince didn’t want bodyguards.

“Our agents were tasked with keeping the prince and his party where we could see them,” the ogre continued. “As a refresher, a human’s gaze can hold a leprechaun prisoner. However, the instant the human looks away, the leprechaun can vanish. So where was the first place the prince and his roving bachelor party wanted to go? A strip club.” The ogre shot a glance at Alain Moreau. It was almost apologetic. “SPI prides itself on agents that are highly trained and disciplined.” He scowled. “Obviously putting five male agents in a strip club and telling them they can’t look proves that there’s been a training oversight on the discipline side because the prince and his boys flew the coop before the first G-string dropped.”

The Casuals couldn’t hold it in any longer. Snorts and snickers filled the room. Personally, I thought the biggest mistake had been sending in five straight male agents.

Hand Crusher had a red face. “Like you would do any better.” His comment was directed at a stylish red-haired woman sitting next to him.

“We can and we will,” she assured him. “Sir,” she said to the ogre, “never send a man to do a woman’s job.”

“Settle down, people.” The ogre’s voice went low, gravelly, vibrated the floor under my feet, and clearly meant business. “Leprechauns are masters of disguise and can make themselves look like anyone. We now have five magically disguised leprechauns running amok and unguarded through New York’s adult entertainment establishments.” He leveled those yellow eyes on every agent in the room, Suits and Casuals alike. “The prince made no secret of his bachelor party plans. And in the Seelie Court, information is just as big of a commodity as gold. Even if he’d tried to keep it secret, it wouldn’t have stayed that way for long. We have to find them before the opposition does.”

The ogre did some click and drag, and the SPI monster eye logo was replaced by five completely average-looking human men on the screen. There was a name below each photo.

“These are our subjects’ usual glamours.”

“Any chance they’ll still be using them?” Ian asked.

“Better than average. The agents originally assigned to the prince and his party will be deployed to the less likely but still viable clubs. They might get lucky.”

“That thinking’s what got them in trouble last time,” Ian muttered.

“What other form can they take?” the redhead asked. “Male? Female? Animal, vegetable, mineral?”

“First two, yes. Last three, unknown.”

“So we’re looking for a male or female who may or may not turn into something with four legs, roots, or a rock.”

That earned her some chuckles.

Alain Moreau stepped in, and the humor instantly vanished. “Apprehend them quickly and bring them here. We will keep them here until all five have been collected, at which time they will be returned to Belvedere Castle.”

I couldn’t have heard that right. Belvedere Castle had been built in Central Park in 1869. I’d visited during my round of doing the tourist thing. It’s a combination weather station, observatory, and exhibition rooms. And every Halloween, they have a haunted house. I would have definitely noticed if there’d been fairies living there.

“The one in Central Park?” I asked.

Moreau hadn’t told them where I was from, though judging from the smiles and barely hidden smirks, they’d figured it out as soon as I opened my mouth.

I’m from the mountains of North Carolina. My words have a couple of extra syllables; so sue me.

Ian Byrne hadn’t said a thing when he’d first heard me talk. And being in HSR, Jenny knew where I was from, and some of her relatives lived in the Mississippi River, so my accent wasn’t big deal. She thought it was charming. Though I’d found out since moving to New York that “charming” most often translated to “redneck.”

Hand Crusher smirked and muttered something under his breath. I only heard two words—“Elly May”—and they told me the gist of the rest.

Yeah, I’m from the South and the mountains. Sure, I’m a woman and a blonde, but calling me a “hillbilly”—either indirectly or right up in my face—stepped up to and over any and every line I had. But if I was going to channel Elly May Clampett, I’d have told him that “them there’s fightin’ words,” put him in a headlock, and sicced my pet raccoon on him. But I wasn’t going to channel anyone or dignify his comments with a response. At least not yet. However, that snide remark plus the hand crush had earned him a spot on my shit list that he’d have to work damn hard to get off of.

“Yes, Agent Fraser. It is the East Coast seat of the Seelie Court,” Moreau replied. “The court exists in the same space, but in a dimension next to ours, effectively keeping it hidden from humans.”

Now that was cool. Note to self: Check out Belvedere again, and this time pay closer attention.

“It would reflect poorly on our skills to return fewer leprechauns than we were assigned to protect,” he continued smoothly. “The best outcome of this evening’s shenanigans is political embarrassment. The worst would be if Prince Finnegan or his friends are captured by agents of the Unseelie Court. Leprechauns are the bankers of the Seelie Court. It could give those agents the means to send the economy of the supernatural world into a downward spiral should they gain access to the gold stores; but the security of those potential wishes is our paramount concern. The prince would have no choice but to grant his captor three wishes. And coming from a leprechaun prince, those wishes would carry world-altering power.” He leveled a stare at the assembled agents. “It is critical that those wishes not be made or granted.”

That explained a lot. I didn’t think folks would be getting so worked up if this was only about some leprechauns missing curfew.

“Specifically who can we expect to run into out there?” I asked.

Hand Crusher snorted, then grunted in pain as another agent kicked him under the table. Either I had a defender, or someone just didn’t like bad manners. I’d take either one.

“Any number of things that call a lair—or the underside of a rock—home. But for something of this importance, our most likely opposition will be goblins.”

Oh crap.

On the list of things your momma warned you about, goblins were in the same class as fast boys in faster trucks times a couple hundred. There were some things humans didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of resisting, and goblins lounged seductively at the top of the list.

“Photos of Prince Finnegan and his party—actual and glamours—are being e-mailed to your phones,” the ogre continued. “There’s not much chance of the boys running around town looking like the supporting cast from Darby O’Gill and the Little People, but you never know. His Highness and his companions were inebriated when they were picked up, and since drunk leprechauns don’t make the best decisions, their behavior for the remainder of the evening is an unknown factor. You’ll also receive a list of the clubs they wanted to go to, but if they want to throw us off, they won’t stick to the list. Most of the clubs on the list have surveillance cameras, though not all, as we’re not exactly dealing with high-class establishments.”

An agent laughed. “Just find the club where the girls are getting gold pieces instead of dollars.”

“They had us run by an ATM,” one of the original team muttered. “They’ve got cash.”

Laughs were joined by snorts. I couldn’t help it; I joined in.

“When a leprechaun goes out on the town or out of town, they have a bottomless money bag tied to their belts,” the ogre explained. “This pouch goes straight to their personal pot of gold.”

“Add muggers to the list,” Ian said.

“Then that mugger would be getting back fewer fingers than they went in with. Gold’s not all that’s lurking at the bottom of those bags. Flash the photos around to bouncers and bartenders. Five leprechauns on the town will definitely be making use of the bars wherever they go. Thankfully, there’s one thing we know for sure—they’ll be sticking together. Find one, and you’ll find them all.”

“Has the queen been told that they’re missing?” I asked.

“Not until this agency has expended every resource available to us to locate and apprehend them. As our seer, you are our best—and potentially last—resource.”

I caught a glimpse of yet another smirk from Hand Crusher. Someone wanted me to screw up even worse than he already had. Too bad I wasn’t close enough to kick him myself, or I’d have taken a shot.

“We thought the agents assigned to the bodyguard duty would be more than adequate for the task.” Moreau’s eyes narrowed at Hand Crusher. Busted. “We were wrong. We underestimated our charges’ craftiness—as well as our agents’ discipline. I, as well as Madame Sagadraco, am disappointed in how the situation was allowed to deteriorate.” His cold eyes lingered over the first team of agents. “Neither she nor I wish to experience that disappointment again.”

Silence. The scared kind. I joined in. The first team had failed their test. Mine was just beginning.

This was the kind of assignment no corporate newbie wanted to get on their first night on the job. A race against goblin agents of the Unseelie Court while we hit New York’s strip joints, and me with a partner who considered the assignment as glorified babysitting, searching for a pack of horny, shapeshifting leprechauns looking to get lucky.

A group of us took the elevator down to SPI’s parking garage in silence. Moments later, a pair of steel doors slid apart in a whisper of air, opening into one of the city’s many abandoned subway tunnels. In this particular tunnel, the tracks had been removed, and the ground smoothed and paved into a parking garage. Beyond, what looked like a perfectly normal street—except it was more than five stories underground—stretched into the distance; I’d seen it once on my orientation tour of the complex.

A shadow suddenly loomed in—and over—my peripheral vision.

“This is Yasha Kazakov,” Ian said from beside me. “He’ll be our driver and backup.”

I turned in the direction Ian indicated, extended my hand, and froze.

Yasha Kazakov was a werewolf.

At least that was the aura my seer vision showed me.

Though, believe it or not, that wasn’t why I was staring. I’d seen werewolves before; I’d just never seen one carrying a massive .45 in a shoulder rig, and wearing fatigues and a T-shirt that read: “Don’t run, you’ll only die tired.”

And if that wasn’t enough—and it was plenty—he was big, somewhere between six foot seven and Sasquatch. His hair was brown trying real hard to be red. Add the werewolf aura my seer vision showed me, and Yasha Kazakov was well over seven foot tall.

“In a city where there are more supernatural perps than parking spaces, having a reliable drop-off and pick-up guy’s a must-have,” Ian told me. “And there’s no one better at turning a rampaging monster into a hood ornament.”

The Russian stuck out a paw that promptly engulfed mine. “I am Yasha.” His accent was almost as thick as his chest. His grip was human firm, not werewolf crushing. I was glad he’d learned to ease up before he got ahold of me.

“Makenna,” I managed, my voice sounding almost as small as I felt. “Call me Mac.”

The Russian gave a quick nod and a smile, and gave me my hand back with everything intact. “Mac.” He looked at Ian and the smile broadened into a grin on the verge of becoming a laugh. “Which den of sin do we visit first?”

“We’ll assume the leprechauns didn’t go back to the club they vanished from. Regardless, the first team will stake that one out.”

Yasha gave a single, booming laugh. “This time they can watch, yes?”

One of the elven agents gave Ian a wave as he, the second elf agent, and the human female agent who’d given Hand Crusher a hard time, got into one of the sedans.

“Mike, Steve, and Elana will be teaming with us,” Ian told me. “Mike knows our contacts in the clubs and can talk his way into or out of anything. Steve has enough mage skill to convince anyone that anything they saw has a perfectly normal—and non-supernatural—explanation. Comes in handy when things get too strange for civilians.”

“And Elana?” I asked.

“When there are dark alleys that need investigating, she goes in first.”

“Preternatural night vision?”

Ian shook his head. “Just mean.”

“And I am the extractor,” Yasha told me. “There is trouble, I am called.”

I gave a couple of slow nods. “I can see that. Why have an entire extraction team when you really only need one?”

WE took the biggest SUV in SPI’s fleet. With the huge Russian werewolf as our driver, it wasn’t like we had a choice.

Yasha drove the Suburban in silence down the subterranean “street,” and after about half a mile, he flipped open a panel on the dash, pushed a button inside, and a section of wall opened to our right that was just large enough to hold the SUV. Yasha pulled in, stopped, and turned off the engine. The doors closed behind us, and Yasha pressed a second button. Almost immediately, the car began to rise; the only sound the low rumble of some serious hydraulics hidden under us. The elevator stopped with a disconcerting jerk, and a pair of doors in front of us opened, revealing another parking garage.

There couldn’t have been more than a few inches of clearance between the top of the Suburban and the concrete slab above it. I didn’t have claustrophobia; I just didn’t like the thought of heavy things squashing me, and concrete slabs certainly qualified. Yasha drove the SUV upward through the parking deck in nearly nauseating spirals until we exited the garage on a familiar section of West Third Street, a block from Washington Square Park.

Ian Byrne took a case out of his jacket pocket and handed it to me. “You’ll need these.”

I opened it. Inside were sunglasses, really cool and expensive sunglasses.

“These clubs will be dark,” Ian began.

I grinned. “It’s dark and I’m wearing sunglasses.”

My stoic partner didn’t get The Blues Brothers reference; or if he did, he wasn’t amused.

“They’re not sunglasses,” he said. “Put them on.”

I did. Suddenly I could see every detail inside and out of the Suburban as if it were broad daylight instead of o’dark thirty. “Nifty.”

“Does your seer vision work with the glasses?” Ian asked.

I glanced up front at Yasha. His werewolf aura was hunched to fit in the big SUV. “Like a charm.”

“Good. You’ll be wearing those in the clubs.”

“Gladly.”

My partner gave me a quizzical glance.

“If strange men are going to see me in a strip joint, at least they won’t get to see me seeing them. And it’ll make it easier for me to ignore them and anything they may be . . . doing. I can guarantee you I won’t be looking at anything but leprechauns.”

“You won’t just be looking for leprechauns,” Ian said. “Any agents of the Unseelie Court will be glamoured as well; unless they’re using humans, in which case we’re looking for suspicious behavior.”

“There’re behaviors that aren’t suspicious in a strip club?”

Yasha snorted from the driver’s seat. “All behavior is suspicious in hoochy-koochy parlors.”

I sat up straighter and grinned. “That’s what my grandma calls ’em.”

“They’re probably the same age,” Ian muttered.

I considered that possibility. If they kept their snouts clean and didn’t go on people-eating binges, werewolves could live a long time. I studied our werewolf driver/extractor. Yasha seemed to be nice. Though as with all werewolves, I imagined that changed during “that time of the month.” Mood swings, cravings, anger, and irritability—trust me, you ain’t seen cranky until you’ve seen a werewolf trying to force down their natural inclinations during a full moon. I knew better than to ask an older woman her age, but I didn’t think a werewolf would mind; at least I didn’t think this particular werewolf would.

“How old are you?”

“Next month, I am ninety-six.” The big Russian grinned in the rearview mirror at Ian. “For surprise party you are planning, hoochy-koochy parlor will be fine, but make sure is good one.”

“For the last time, I’m not planning a surprise party.”

Yasha glanced over at me and winked. “Your new partner is very good at keeping secrets.”

I slid my Go-Go-Gadget sunglasses up on my head. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“How much do you know about leprechauns?” Ian asked.

“Just what they taught in orientation,” I said. “What they are, where to find them, how to catch one—and to watch out for those wishes. Usually a supernatural doesn’t use a human glamour unless they have a good reason. Are leprechauns up to no good, or do they interact with humans on a daily basis?”

“Yes.”

“Pardon?”

“Yes, to both,” Ian said. “Leprechauns typically work in the Financial District. They have a sixth sense about which way the market’s going to go. If you can get a leprechaun as a financial advisor, your investments are guaranteed to thrive. Though you should always get their commission amount agreed to in writing sealed with a blood-pricked thumbprint, drawn up by a lawyer mage. Otherwise, your leprechaun money manager will skim off the top to top off his pot of gold. Some of the commodities companies that went belly up a few years ago due to creative accounting?”

“Yeah?”

“Because there were leprechauns high up in the companies. They’re great at making money—but they’re even better at lining their own pockets. Vivienne Sagadraco has used leprechauns in the past at Saga Investments, but got tired of having to watch their every move. She prefers to make her own investments with the help of a team of clairvoyants.”

I nodded in approval. “Nice to know the boss doesn’t take risks with our 401ks.”

“Our leprechaun nobles shouldn’t be difficult to spot, even using human glamours. It’s a bachelor party of five guys. There can’t be that many of them making the rounds tonight. And when we get them cornered, remember that leprechauns will promise anything to gain their freedom, and their loyalties are to themselves and that’s it. To trust a leprechaun for an instant means you’re either a fool or suicidal.”

“Is like playing Russian roulette,” Yasha said. “On the upside of playing with a gun, you only lose once.”

“What if the prince and his boys decide to split up?” I asked.

“Then it’s going to be a long night.” Ian paused and looked away from me. “Go ahead,” he said.

Then I realized he was on the phone. I’d never used those little Bluetooth earphone thingies, and I wasn’t about to. They made you look like you were walking around talking to yourself. Though I could see where they’d come in handy in the monster hunting/supernatural sleuthing business. If I was being chased down by something with six legs and a hankering for people sushi, I know I’d want to be hands free.

“I am from Saint Petersburg.” Yasha made no effort to keep his voice down or to stop Ian from hearing his caller. Apparently the Russian was more interested in talking to me than being considerate of Ian. It sounded like someone was miffed at potentially being stiffed for a surprise party. Since Yasha was our driver and backup, my partner might want to rethink that.

“I’m from a little town called Weird Sisters. It’s in the far western point of North Carolina.”

Yasha cocked an eyebrow. “Weird Sisters?”

“It was named after the three witches in Macbeth, and weird does describe most of the townfolk. It’s on a ley line that magnifies psychic and paranormal energies. I don’t know if there’s anything to that or not, but something attracts people—and non-people—to stop and stay.”

“Is your family people or not-people? My pardon, but I am not a seer, so I cannot tell if you wear glamour or not.”

I smiled. “That’s okay. Me and my family are plain vanilla human.”

“Plain vanilla?”

“Just regular folks. A lot of my family are seers who’ve gone into law enforcement. As long as anyone can remember, there’s been a Fraser as marshal, then sheriff. Right now, my aunt Vicki’s the police chief.”

There’s a hesitation in Ian’s phone conversation. I couldn’t hear anyone speaking on the other end of the line, so it was Ian who did the pausing. Then “Sir, are you there?” said a tinny voice on the other end.

“Yes, I’m here. I heard what you said,” Ian told the caller. “First three clubs on the list have been eliminated.”

My new, and apparently curious, partner had also heard every word I had said, too.

“When I was little, I wanted to be an investigative reporter for our local paper,” I continued to Yasha, talking just a wee bit louder so my partner wouldn’t have to work so hard to eavesdrop. “Protect the prey from the predators in my own way, without becoming a cop. But in a town with more than its fair share of actual psychics, unsolved crimes were gonna be few and far between.” I shrugged. “So I decided it was time for me to leave for good.”

“Little town in mountains sounds nice. Peaceful,” Yasha said almost wistfully. “Why come here?”

I shrugged again. “I wanted to use my journalism degree but all I could get was a job at a seedy tabloid called the Informer. You heard of it?”

The Russian chuckled. “And not in a good way.”

“That’s the place. Only stories like ‘Donald Trump is a werewolf lovechild’ had any hope of making it to the front page. If a story was the truth, great; if not, lies worked just fine. Our readership was gullible as hell and thought everything we printed was the gospel truth anyway.”

Yasha snorted in derision. “No werewolf would have hair like that. Would look foolish.”

“Lucky for me, one of my stories put me in Ms. Sagadraco’s sights. By that point, I’d take any job that’d let me regain some self-respect. When the HSR ladies called me with an offer, I couldn’t resign fast enough.”

Yeah, I’d traded the scent of mountain laurel for diesel fumes, and a ley line running under the mountains for a subway line running under the city, but New York had an energy all its own. The mountains had a heartbeat, a soul. Maybe it was the ley line, running under them, maybe it was something else.

I had the same feeling when I’d arrived in New York. It was alive. The city lived and breathed. It could also devour, but so far, it’d kept its fangs and appetite to itself. I hadn’t been chewed up and spit out in the general direction of the Mason-Dixon Line, so I considered my move north to be a success.

THERE it was, glowing in all its purple-neon glory over a door that was intended to look like something you’d find at one of those medieval-themed places that served dry turkey legs and cheap beer in even cheaper plastic tankards.

Fairy Tails.

Oh Lord.

“Seriously?” I asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Ian replied.

The bouncer was predictably huge and surprisingly human. He was also dressed like the Jolly Green Giant complete with a club that I hoped was as plastic as the tankards inside; though when he set it down to open the door for us, it made a disturbingly solid thud on the sidewalk.

Inside was even more kitschy, if that was possible.

Ian and I were arriving first, to be followed by Mike, Steve, and Elana in a few minutes. Ian said we didn’t want to attract attention by arriving in a group. I had news for my partner—in this place, no one would have noticed.

Fairy Tails looked like the set of a low-budget fantasy movie. Really low. The walls had been painted—badly—to look like castle stone. And every few feet were “torches” made of yellow bulbs and those yellow/red/orange strips of parachute fabric cut to look like flames. There was an air source coming from somewhere that made the flames flap around like the arms of those inflatable tube people you see at used car dealerships. What I assumed was the VIP section had thrones for seating. And yes, behind the bar were the expected plastic tankards and goblets. And to top off the themed experience, the bartenders were Little Red Riding Hood and the Big, Bad Wolf. The guy in the wolf suit was plenty big, but there was nothing little about what was about to pop out the top of Red’s red leather corset. Those couldn’t possibly be real.

I had to say it. “Maybe you should bring Yasha here for his birthday. He and Red might hit it off.”

My partner didn’t dignify that with a response.

We were seated by Tinker Bell.

She was made up and dressed just like the Disney version, that is if Tink was about to shoot a porno with Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. I didn’t think Pete and his boys would have been quite so lost if Tink had been flitting around in what the hostess was mostly not wearing.

Moments later, our Disney parade continued when Snow White showed up to take our drink order. Her getup was the familiar Disney version except the bodice was way lower, and the skirt cut so much higher as to be virtually nonexistent. I guarantee Snow would have had a whole different relationship with those seven dwarves if she’d been sashaying around their house in that.

I don’t think Snow even realized I was there. Though it was obvious she had no trouble seeing Ian, and was making it abundantly clear that drinks weren’t all she was offering. I told myself right then and there that if she offered him a lap dance, leprechauns on the lam be damned, I was out of there. Though I really couldn’t blame her; most of the men in this place wouldn’t have been called prized bulls on their best days.

Ian ordered a beer—thankfully without a side order of Snow.

Pursing her red lips in a disappointed pout, she turned to leave.

I cleared my throat loudly. “I’ll have a Coke, please.”

“Will that be diet?” Snow White asked sweetly.

“No.” I forced myself to smile. “Thank you.” Where was an evil queen and poison apple when you needed one?

Snow flounced off, and I closed my eyes and briefly pondered the insides of my eyelids. Maybe the caffeine would help my headache, and keep me from having to prop my eyes open with those little plastic swords Fairy Tails probably used to spear the olives in their martinis, though from the looks of their clientele, they didn’t get many requests for those.

Snow brought our drinks, Ian’s came in a faux pewter stein, and apparently Coke warranted a goblet. Though after baring her teeth in a smile frosty enough to give the Wicked Queen a run for her money, I decided to leave that Coke right where she put it. Caffeine was overrated, and if I needed help staying alert, I’d just pinch myself occasionally.

Mike, Steve, and Elana came in a few minutes later and were seated at the table nearest to ours, but even closer to the back exit. I guess if I saw our quarry, and one or more of them tried to make a break for it, our agents’ job would be to cut off their escape.

While looking around the club for our wayward leprechauns in disguise, I couldn’t help but notice that more than a few of the men in the club were looking at me. Maybe I was being overly sensitive, but it seemed to me like Elana and I were getting more attention wearing clothes than the women on the stage who were one step up from starkers. You’d think they’d never seen women before, at least not any with all of their clothes on. Either that or they liked the idea of women watching other women. Pervs.

I’d put on the super spy gadget sunglasses, so at least I wouldn’t have to make eye contact with them. They’d probably think I was embarrassed that my date had brought me here. While my glare would have been worthless, with or without the shades, my partner’s was in perfect working order. Men looked once, found themselves on the receiving end of Ian Byrne’s I-will-kick-your-ass scowl, and hurriedly looked away to find more interesting things to occupy their attention.

“If you’re concerned about your safety—” Ian began.

A man that bore a disturbing resemblance to a hundred-year-old Danny DeVito scurried back to his table counting out a handful of ones. I felt my lip curl. Either the bartenders made change, or Fairy Tails had its own ATM that spit out small bills.

“I’m more worried about the contents of my stomach,” I told him.

Though what I could use more than a handful of Tums were earplugs. The music was so loud it felt like the fillings were being vibrated out of my teeth, and the flashing disco lights were either going to give me a seizure or the mother of all migraines.

After my first scan of the club came up empty for leprechauns, I made myself at least glance at the dancers. Why not? I was wearing sunglasses that weren’t sunglasses, and could look without anyone, including my partner, seeing me watch. It was kind of daring and dangerous when I thought of it that way.

Cinderella had traded in her glass slippers for Lucite stripper heels, and her shoes weren’t all that see-through. Though after less than a minute of watching her perform moves with a pole that I wouldn’t have thought physically or gravitationally possible, I realized that I was a lot less embarrassed than I thought I’d be. I mean, let’s face it, the dancers had all the same boobs and bits that I had, just more of the former and were more imaginative with the landscaping and decoration of the latter.

But mainly they all looked bored. Sleeping Beauty was dancing like she was still asleep, or wished she was. And Cinderella looked like she was thinking that midnight would never get here. Their lips might have been set on smile, but their eyes said their minds were elsewhere. Maybe sorting laundry—don’t wash silver pasties with that hot pink G-string again. Or the bald guy drooling at the front table made one of them remember to pick up a honeydew melon at the store tomorrow.

They were the ones with their lady bits on display, not me. If they didn’t care, why should I be embarrassed? Stripping was a job, just like any other, except strippers could write off waxing on their taxes. When I thought about it like that, none of this was really that big of a deal. Speaking of taxes, SPI must have a creative accounting department to be able to slip things like strip club cover charges past the IRS as a business expense.

Did Ian think about it in a similar way or was he just that disciplined? He hadn’t gotten all that desk flair from letting anything affect his focus. Or maybe he simply preferred his women with factory-original parts rather than aftermarket enhancements. I took a quick glance down at my girls. As far as I could tell they weren’t anything special to look at, but at least I’d rolled off the line with them.

I glanced back up to find Ian Byrne—the senior agent at my new employment—watching me checking myself out in a strip club.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

Ignoring him—and the shadow of a smile I detected and any thoughts that may have been going on behind it—I resumed doing my job, scanning the club for leprechauns. And rogue goblins.

I saw plenty of hootin’ and hollerin’ men, but what I didn’t see where any horny leprechauns or greedy goblins, and I was frustrated by the former, and quite frankly relieved at the latter.

I leaned toward my partner. “You said we were gonna have goblins.”

“They’re the most likely competition.” Ian’s alertness increased by ten without his moving a muscle, including his lips. Impressive. “You see any?”

“No, but I’ve been wondering what we’re gonna do if or when they do show up.”

“Unless they’re standing between us and a leprechaun, we’ll just keep an eye on them. It’s a free country, and unless they break the law, that’s all we’ll do.”

“And if I see a goblin with a leprechaun?”

“We will encourage the goblin to mind his or her own business.”

“And if their business happens to be catching a leprechaun?”

“We’ll do whatever we have to do to stop it.”

Fair enough.

Fairy Tails’ seats left a lot to be desired in terms of comfort. I shifted in my seat to cross my legs—at least I tried.

And I froze in complete revulsion.

The bottoms of my shoes were stuck to the floor.

Ian must have seen my horrified expression even with the sunglasses, and his right hand instinctively moved toward his gun. “What is it?”

“My shoes are stuck to the floor.” Each word was higher, squeakier, and closer to panic than the one before. I couldn’t help it.

“It’s spilled beer,” Ian hurried to assure me.

“Beer is sticky?”

“Beer could be . . . sticky.” Ian reassured me in the same tone he’d use to talk someone off a ledge.

I wasn’t having it. Panic was in the driver’s seat and had taken the wheel. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. “It’s not beer.”

These shoes were going in the garbage as soon as I got home, if not before. Maybe I could convince Ian to add new shoes to his expense report. I loved these shoes. I’d spent more money than I should’ve on these shoes, but no amount of money was enough to pay me to keep them after tonight. And the bottle of hand sanitizer in my purse wasn’t nearly enough to wash this place off the rest of me.

I took a deep breath and tried not to think of my shoes and . . . beer.

Focus on the job, Mac. The nice job. The one you really like.

But Disney porn princesses, ATMs next to the bathrooms, fake fire, plastic goblets, even more plastic riding high in Red’s corset, and sticky floors from God only knows what. This wasn’t worth insurance and a 401k. Nothing was worth this.

Focus, Mac.

I glanced at my watch. It was a little before midnight. We had to find, apprehend, and deliver five leprechauns before dawn. And buy new shoes. This was New York City. There had to be all-night shoe shops. I’ll bet Elana knew.

Talk, Mac. Talking will help.

“You’d think that a leprechaun prince would have more . . .”

“Taste?” Ian finished for me.

“To say the least.”

Ian looked around with a dismal sigh. “Hate to burst your bubble.”

I wiggled my toes in my stuck shoes. “Oh, it’s long gone.”

I wasn’t the only one who was less than comfortable here. Mike and Steve the elves were both staring at Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty in open-mouthed disbelief. Elana had an impressive facepalm going, and her shoulders were shaking with laughter.

At a two-beat lull in the pounding music, I heard Steve say, “Can you say copyright infringement?”

Mike nodded in agreement. “Walt’s doing wheelies in his urn.”

Elana’s shoulders shook harder.

Ian put down his beer. “They’re not going to show. There’s something we’re missing.”

“Besides leprechauns—and new shoes?” I asked hopefully.

“Yes.” He stood. “We’re wasting time. Let’s get out of here.”

That was the best idea I’d heard all night.

I thought the next two clubs had to be better.

I was wrong.

And to make it even worse, I was running out of hand sanitizer.

Three sleazy strip joints. Three strikes. Same shoes.

Unfortunately, three strikes didn’t mean we were out by any stretch of the imagination, or that we could call it a night. Our night didn’t end until we found those leprechauns.

Ian had been talking on his Bluetooth, checking in with the other two teams. Not only were we running out of viable clubs to check, we were running out of night. The prince and his bachelor party were due home by dawn, and we weren’t any closer to getting the job done.

“Anybody else get lucky?” I asked, completely over any and all embarrassment I might have had letting a double entendre slip.

A larger problem for me than the lack of leprechauns in any of the first three clubs was the lack of a usable ladies’ room in any of them. I’d assumed they all had ladies’ rooms; it’s just that Satan would be serving sno-cones in Hell before I would’ve set foot in any of them. Even the time-honored squat ‘n’ hover method wasn’t an option. If the floors in the clubs were sticky, I didn’t even want to think about what the bathrooms looked like. And I really needed a clean bathroom right now. I’d been fairly certain our waitresses in the next two clubs hadn’t been trying to poison me, so I’d had more Coke than my bladder could comfortably hold. Not to mention, if Yasha hit one more pothole, I was liable to let out a burp that’d ring his windshield, right before I’d wet my pants.

“Aren’t leprechauns in the Seelie Court?” I asked Ian, trying to keep my mind off the impending rupture of my bladder. “And isn’t the Seelie Court the good guys?”

“When it comes to the fairy courts, there aren’t good guys and bad guys,” he told me. “There’s just entirely too many what’s-in-it-for-me guys—and gals. All goblins and Unseelie aren’t evil, and all elves and Seelie aren’t good. There’s a whole lot of gray out there, more than black and white combined.”

“If the leprechauns know they’re in danger, why don’t they turn themselves in?”

“Because leprechauns are adrenaline junkies.”

“So they like being in danger?”

“Like it and will seek it out.” Ian stopped and spat a whispered curse.

“What is it?”

“Yasha, take us to Bacchanalia.”

The Russian werewolf shot Ian a sharp look in the rearview mirror. “Daredevil is one thing; suicide is another.”

“That’s where they’ve gone. And if they’ve been there long, we’re too late. Get us there and don’t spare the horses.”

Tires screeched, and I was glad I was wearing my seat belt. As it was, it damned near strangled me as Yasha Kazakov spun the Suburban in a U-turn in the middle of a thankfully empty Seventh Avenue.

Ian keyed his comms. “Steve, we’re going to Bacchanalia.”

Silence.

“Do you read?”

A sigh from one, a “Dammit” from the other, and a heartfelt “Shit” from Elana.

Well, that made it unanimous.

“What’s Bacchanalia?” I asked.

Ian answered me. Yasha was too busy trying to get us killed. “If Prince Finnegan knew he had one night on the town, he’d want to make it count and go to the most dangerous club he knew of—one owned by and crawling with goblins. He’d think that since he and his buddies would be glamoured that they’d be safe.”

“Wouldn’t they? Goblins can’t see through glamours.”

“No, they can’t. So Finn would think he’d be able to live dangerously without paying the consequences.”

“And . . . he would be wrong?”

“He couldn’t be more wrong. Rake Danescu owns that club. He’s a goblin, a dark mage, and while he can’t see through glamours, he’d know when they were being used.”

The depth of the leprechauns’ stupidity started to dawn on me. “And the goblins know that there are five glamoured leprechauns out looking for a good time.”

Ian nodded. “Rake Danescu would know exactly who they were the moment five creatures glamoured as human males set foot in his place.” His mouth set in a hard line. “That little bastard Finn was going there all along. Everything he did tonight was just to throw us off.”

“How’s that?”

“Bacchanalia is on the other side of town from all the clubs on the list he gave us. All the clubs on the list are—”

“Sticky.”

“To put it mildly. Bacchanalia is not. It’s upscale and very exclusive.”

“If it’s that exclusive, how are we getting in?”

“My undercover alter ego has a membership.”

Of course he does.

I knew how dangerous goblins could be, but that didn’t stop me from giving a little silent cheer. I bet Bacchanalia had fabulous bathrooms.

Ian paused uncomfortably. “I should probably warn you that Bacchanalia isn’t a strip club.”

My inside voice stopped cheering. “That sounds like a good thing, but if you feel the need to warn me, then it’s not.” I frowned. “I thought you said it was upscale.”

“It is. Bacchanalia caters to men and women, and bills itself as a complete adult entertainment experience.”

“Complete?”

“Experience. With an emphasis on experience. People don’t go to Bacchanalia simply to watch—they go to participate.” He hesitated. “And the five of us will go in together. Three men and two women going to Bacchanalia isn’t suspicious at all.”

“Do you mean . . . ?” I made vaguely suggestive hand gestures.

“Oh yeah. It’s a sex club.”

And the allure vanished from my dreams of a clean bathroom.

BACCHANALIA was located in what looked like merely one brick-fronted nightclub in the city. A pair of hobgoblins, glamoured as unnecessarily huge humans, stood guard on either side of a plain door.

Ian’s hand clamped down on my arm, his lips close to my ear. “Mac, this is one of the most dangerous places for humans in the entire city. Don’t let your guard down for one moment. The faster you find those leprechauns, the quicker we can leave. Focus and do your job.”

I swallowed and nodded.

Once inside, we had to pause to allow our eyes to adjust to the dark. My glasses had been sitting on my head. I put them on my eyes where they belonged.

Everything in Bacchanalia was black. The floor was marble, the walls black glass, and the ceiling appeared as a star-strewn night sky, far away from the lights of any city. It had to be at least two-stories high. There were constellations, stars, and even the gossamer expanse that was the Milky Way. I hadn’t seen a sky this awe-inspiringly beautiful since I’d left home.

“Incredible,” I breathed.

“Focus, Mac,” Ian rumbled next to my ear.

Fairy Tails had a VIP section of cheap theater prop thrones. Bacchanalia had dimly lit, gauzy-curtained alcoves. Thanks to my magical mystery glasses, I could see way too clearly what was going on inside.

The only color came from the unbelievably beautiful men and women who worked there.

Inhumanly beautiful, I reminded myself.

“It’s perfectly fine to stare,” Ian told me. “That’s your job, look around and don’t miss a thing. It’s your first time here, staring is expected. It’s important that we do the expected. We do not want the management of this place to know who we are and what we’re looking for. If they even suspect there are leprechauns here and that our goal is to get them out . . . they are able to make leaving more of a challenge than we want.”

We were seated by a fairy, a female with wings as ethereal and sheer as the gown she wore. In contrast, the body clearly visible beneath . . . well, lush was the only word to describe it. The fairy might have been five foot tall, but height was difficult to judge with her hovering at least a foot from the floor, her pale and perfect face even with Ian’s. She smiled in a gleam of teeth set like tiny pearls against full lips of rich pink, her violet eyes taking in Ian like the long, tall drink of water that he was. I had to agree with her. My partner was one fine-looking man.

“Mr. Phillips, it is truly a pleasure to see you again.”

Then she turned those all-consuming eyes on me, and for a few pounding heartbeats, I forgot what team I batted for. And she was just the welcoming committee. Ian was right, this place was dangerous.

She showed us to a table with chairs that didn’t make me feel any more secure. They were low, leather-covered stools, more of a tuffet really, with no sides or back. Anyone or anything could sneak up on me from any direction. It would also spin in a complete circle, allowing me to watch anything going on anywhere in the club. It was then I noticed that there wasn’t really a stage to speak of, more like slightly raised platforms. Then it hit me—the place was like a freakin’ karaoke bar, but with sex instead of bad ’80s power ballads.

“All the world’s a stage,” Ian murmured, confirming my suspicions. “And all the men and women merely players.”

I wouldn’t have pegged him for a Shakespeare fan, but being impressed about it took a backseat to what I knew he meant. All of Bacchanalia was a stage, and anyone who walked in here was considered a player—and was fair game to be played or played with.

Like hell.

Any Miss or Mister Muffet—or in this place, they’d probably be called Mistress or Master Muffet—who even thought about taking me off my tuffet would pay dearly.

“What would be your pleasure this evening?” said a cool, silken voice from right behind me.

I squeaked and turned to find myself face to . . . whoa . . . with a blond god wearing a dazzling smile. That was all. The last thing I needed was more to drink, but my tongue was presently plastered to the roof of my mouth. Either that, or dry from it hanging to my knees. Blonds weren’t usually my type. I was more of a brunette kind of girl, my tastes leaning hot and heavy to the tall, dark, and slightly naughty side of fun. I didn’t know if it was the natural glow of his skin, or if he was actually shimmering.

“The lady will have a glass of white wine,” said Ian’s voice from behind me. I managed a series of mute little nods.

The waiter left as silently as he had appeared. It took every bit of control I had not to swivel around on my plush leather tuffet to see if he looked just as pretty walking away as he had standing still.

I frowned. My tuffet wouldn’t turn. Ian’s hand was on the leather seat next to my thigh, keeping me right where I was.

“Not. A. Leprechaun,” he told me.

I whistled. “You can say that again.”

“I’d rather not have to.”

I snapped out of it, embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”

“That’s okay. It’s understandable.” He didn’t sound happy about it. “Every creature working here was hired specifically for their abilities to bewitch and seduce humans.”

Once big, buff, and blond was out of sight, he was also out of mind. And a fog lifted.

I sat up ramrod straight, my skin suddenly cold and clammy with fear that I’d been swept under that easily—and that was just from the waitstaff—and that it could happen again at any time. Then I remembered what he’d ordered for me.

“Wait a minute; why did you order white wi—”

“Bacchanalia is known for their wines. And you won’t be drinking it.”

“Oh, if that’s the—” I stopped. “Wait, why won’t I be drinking?”

“Anything served here is—or could be—drugged.” Ian was speaking without moving his lips as his eyes gazed around the room with what appeared to anyone watching to be lazy appreciation. I hadn’t known Ian Byrne for more than a few hours and I knew I was seeing an act, and a very convincing one it was.

“I take it Mr. Phillips is doing a little window shopping?”

“He is.”

“Convincing.”

“It has to be.”

“Dark mages who can detect glamours?”

“And spies.”

“And don’t look kindly on either one.”

Ian’s single nod was barely detectable.

The glass tables were softly lit from beneath, providing just enough illumination to find your drink. Our drinks had been served and I hadn’t seen anyone approach, and if our Adonis waiter was any indication of Bacchanalia’s waitstaff—and the bounty presently on view everywhere in the club told me that he was—I would have noticed.

“Magic?” I asked Ian.

He nodded. “Pixies. Tiny and fast.”

The table’s soft glow sent shimmers of gold up through the delicate stem of the glass and into the wine. Pretty. And highly tempting. I remembered Ian’s warning and slid my hands under my thighs, to keep them from reaching for anything gold and shiny—either a possibly drugged drink or a definitely intoxicating waiter.

I resumed scanning the club for leprechauns. “If they’re here, how do we get them out?” I asked Ian, trying not to move my lips. “Do you have a plan?”

Being SPI’s top agent meant you didn’t walk into a goblin den without a plan, but being the control freak that I was, I wanted to know precisely what that plan was—and how it involved me.

When Ian didn’t respond, I turned toward him and was hit with my partner’s heated gaze.

My hand suddenly took on a life of its own and lowered my sunglasses. “Is the mostly naked hostess behind me?” I whispered.

“No.” With that, Ian reached over and hauled me right off my tuffet, across his lap, and kissed me like he was diving for lost treasure.

I saw twinkly lights that didn’t have a damned thing to do with the star-strewn ceiling. Realizing I’d forgotten to breathe, I panicked and inhaled all the air in a ten-table radius through my nose.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“We’re being watched,” Ian held me tight, keeping me right where I was. “And listened to,” he breathed against the curve of my ear.

If it’d been anyone else, I’d think he was taking advantage of the situation to get some on-the-job action. Ian must have been doing it to preserve his cover.

His lips were at my throat. “The mics have been turned on in our table.”

Microphones in the tables? My karaoke analogy was closer than I’d thought.

Though the mic wasn’t all that had just had its switch flipped. I’d just developed tingles in all of my favorite places. Apparently being borderline molested by a gorgeous, dangerously hot, monster-hunting secret agent was a huge turn-on for me. Who knew?

“We’re being spied on?” I breathed against his earlobe, and felt him shiver in response. One point for me.

“A guest—or more than one—has apparently asked the management if you’re available.” His lips skimmed the side of my neck, up and down with maddening slowness. “They’re trying to find out. I’m making it clear that you’re with me. My job is to protect you. I’m doing my job.”

And a damned fine job he was doing.

Air must have been in short supply again. I was starting to pant. “Protection? So that’s what the kids are calling it now.”

“As long as it’s obvious you’re with me, you’re safe. That innocent librarian look of yours is attracting the wrong kind of attention. It’s almost as hot to these people as a schoolgirl costume.”

I was hot? I pulled back as much as I could, which with Ian’s arms locked around me was about an inch.

“It’s a challenge to every man in here.” Ian’s hand was sliding up my thigh, his breath hot against the hollow of my throat. “Like waving a red flag in front of a herd of bulls.”

Ian Byrne was making me crazy. His lips and hands were doing more to short-circuit my brain than a baker’s dozen of naked male fairies could hope to do on their best night. Either the man was one hell of an actor, or maybe he didn’t mind being my partner as much as I thought.

My hormones didn’t care one way or another; they stood up and cheered for the Peeping Tom who was spying on our table, whoever or whatever it was, and encouraged him to keep up the good work.

God, I loved my new job.

“Can you see them?” Ian murmured, his lips kissing their way south from my throat toward the first button on my blouse—a button that suddenly wasn’t buttoned anymore.

“Uh . . . the bulls?”

Ian’s mouth was making a run for the border and the hill country beyond. “Leprechauns.”

If my brain and other places weren’t sizzling like bacon in a skillet, I’d be able to tell him.

Ian’s attention went to the bar. He swore. And worse, he stopped.

“What?”

He disengaged himself from me. “I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

“Where are you going?”

“I need to talk to our contact.”

“I’m going with you.”

“He’s undercover, so am I, and you’re not.” He indicated Mike, Steve, and Elana’s table and tuffets near ours. “Go. Stay. I’ll be right back.”

I grabbed my purse and scurried on over. “Psst, Elana.”

“What?”

“Go to the bathroom with me.”

“What?”

“I have to pee. Now. I’m not going anywhere by myself. Come with me.”

Steve stood. “We’re all going.”

Huh? “Won’t that look weird?”

The three of them just stared at me.

“Right.” Weird was relative in a place where people were getting cozy in groups all over the place. “Come on, girls. Let’s go.”

We walked by Ian in a pack, and I mouthed “Bathroom.” My partner gave me a curt nod.

That Bacchanalia had clean bathrooms was an understatement.

I could see myself even in the surfaces that weren’t covered in mirrors. Mike and Steve stuck their heads in and determined that Elana and I would be the only people in here.

“We won’t let anyone in,” Steve assured me.

Mike glanced around nervously. “And hurry.” Standing outside a bathroom in a goblin sex club was bound to make a pair of elves nervous. That made all of us.

Elana snorted. “I’ll stay out here and protect your virtues,” she told them.

There were five stalls, and they were huge, polished black marble, and even more mirrors. At least half a dozen people could fit in here. I ignored everything that implied and was even more motivated to take care of business in record time.

I lined the seat with more toilet paper than I knew was necessary, but considering where I was, who had probably been in here, and what he, she, or they could have been using this Stall Mahal for . . . a little paranoia equaled a whole lot of peace of mind.

Besides, it was quiet in here, and while my headache from the first club had stopped pounding in time with the music, the music was softer in here, and as a result, so was the pounding. I wondered how long I could stay in here without Ian or the others coming to look for me. Probably not nearly long enough.

I unzipped my pants and froze. If the tables were bugged, then what would they have done to a room where women got naked from the waist down? There could be a camera filming me right now and posting live to YouTube. Or what if stall number three in the Bacchanalia ladies room had its own channel on Perv-Per-View?

The door handle clicked on the stall next to mine. Holy shit, someone was in here. They must have been standing on the toilet when Steve had checked for me. I heard the click of a lighter, and two blinks later I smelled it.

I debated what to do. I had no problem with two guys sneaking off to smoke a little weed, and they obviously didn’t care if I knew they were doing it or not, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to come out of the ladies’ room smelling like pot and sit down next to my new partner, a former NYPD detective who might still be looking for any excuse to get out of being my partner, even if it meant getting me fired from SPI.

I reached for the stall door, and the smoke really hit me.

It wasn’t pot. I knew from prior experience that one whiff of pot would fling open the doors to the mother superior of all migraines.

Instead the pounding in my head stopped. Completely.

I was awake and alert.

And I felt good. Damned good.

Any hesitation I’d felt about confronting the midnight tokers vanished just as fast as my headache.

I flung open the door on the next stall.

And stared. I think my mouth fell open.

It was two tall, skinny white guys—one in jeans, the other in khakis, both in Polos—and both were glamoured leprechauns.

I’ve been told I should never play poker. I can’t lie, and my emotions are all over my face.

The leprechauns instantly knew I knew.

I was in danger, my team was in danger, and the financial stability of the supernatural world’s entire banking system was in danger—all because these leprechauns and their friends wanted to get high and get lucky.

Before I’d gotten a snootful of that smoke, I’d have yelled for help.

Now I just wanted to pound the crap out of them.

A human stare could capture them. I couldn’t lock eyes with both of them at once, but there wasn’t a rule that said I couldn’t take them down the old-fashioned way.

They turned and scrambled for the door, but not before both of them blew smoke in my eyes, breaking my stare and burning my eyes.

Sons of bitches.

Half-blind, I launched myself toward the sound of scuffling loafers on tile, and grabbed a handful of whatever I could get—the belt of one, the waistband of the other. If they were gonna make a run for it, they’d have to drag me along with them.

I didn’t think the leprechauns would want to draw attention to themselves.

I was wrong.

They started screaming for help like a pair of stoned banshees.

“Rape!” squealed the one with my fist death-gripped in the waist of his khakis.

Naturally, my Taser was in my purse hanging on the back of the stall door. What good was carrying the thing if I couldn’t get to it?

The door slammed open, and Steve, Mike, and Elana charged in.

Khaki Guy was squirming like a greased pig, kicking at me until his shoes flew off. I heard the rasp of a zipper, and the next thing I knew I was left holding an empty pair of khakis. There was an “oof” and sounds of a scuffle. Once my eyes had stopped watering, though they still stung like hell, I squinted to see a pasty guy wearing only a yellow Polo, tighty-whiteys, and argyle socks trying to run, but mostly sliding, down the hallway with Steve and Mike in hot pursuit.

I groaned and squinted my eyes shut. I was never gonna be able to unsee that.

Steve tackled the half-naked leprechaun and I helpfully flung the khakis in his general direction. I was straddling Jeans Guy and doing my best to literally stare him into submission. Unfortunately he was the one screaming “Rape!” though at least he was still wearing his pants.

Elana was leaning against the open bathroom door teary-eyed from laughing.

A bouncer rounded the corner, took one look, and busted out laughing, but still managed to put out a hand, and snatch Tighty-Whitey Guy off his feet by the collar of his Polo.

“These the two you looking for?” he asked someone behind him.

Ian stepped into view, and didn’t look the least bit surprised to see me. “These our boys?” he asked me.

I managed a nod, still gasping for smoke-free air. I hadn’t found any yet.

Ian took a sniff, swore, and shook his head.

“It’s not mine,” I told him, keeping my eyes locked on the leprechaun.

“I know it’s not.”

“You do?”

“You’re human. That’s a recreational drug popular in the Seelie Court called clover weed. It wouldn’t do you much good.”

Now I was curious. “Why?”

Mike caught a whiff, blanched, and scuttled away fast.

“Sir, I—” he began to Ian.

“Get some air.”

Mike fled. That was the only way to describe it.

“Steve,” Ian asked, “How much did you get?”

“Not enough. I’m fine, sir.”

Ian paused, not looking convinced, then muttered another curse. He keyed his comms: “Yasha, we’ve apprehended two of our leprechauns. More than likely the other three are in here somewhere. I need secure transport back to a holding cell at HQ.” Ian paused. “And I need additional agents. Human agents. Steve and Mike may have been compromised.” He paused for a moment, probably listening to Yasha. “Clover weed.”

Yasha’s booming laugh came over all of our headsets.

I wanted to see Ian’s reaction, but if I looked away from Jeans Guy before we got him cuffed, in a blink he’d turn back to his leprechaun form and squirm his way into an air duct or something.

I’d only met Yasha a few hours ago, but it was long enough to know we had the same sense of humor. If the Russian werewolf nearly busted a gut laughing because of that clover weed stuff and it “compromising” Steve and Mike, then chances were good I’d get a chuckle out of it, too.

I was straddling and staring down a scrawny guy in the ladies’ room of a sex club. I deserved a laugh.

“Uh . . . I’d rather not sit here all night,” I told Ian. “Especially not here here. Can we get this guy cuffed?”

Ian grappled Jeans Guy into a pair of glowing green handcuffs.

The instant I “dismounted” and took my eyes off of his, the leprechaun reverted to his true form—and the cuffs shrank right along with him.

That didn’t go over well.

The leprechaun’s face twisted in rage, his green eyes went huge, and he started shrieking again, though this time it was in a language I’d never heard before, but I didn’t need to know what it was to know that it was what the old-timers back home called language you didn’t use around the womenfolk.

“Guard that entry,” Ian told the bouncer. “No one gets in or knows we nabbed these two. And when transport gets here, we’ll take these two out the back. Don’t want to spook the other three if they’re here.”

The bouncer nodded. Looked like he worked for SPI, too.

Ian helped me to my feet. “Let’s get you out front. Two down, three to go.”

I about said the hunting’s better in the bathroom. My headache was gone and I really didn’t want it coming back.

AMAZINGLY enough, no one out in the club had seen or heard either me or the leprechauns. Maybe the music had covered the noise we’d made, and people were, um . . . focused on their own activities. The leprechauns probably could have set off a bomb in here and no one would have noticed.

The whiff of whatever I’d gotten in the ladies’ room had definitely taken a big chunk out of any embarrassment I may have had left. Tonight had been my first time in a big-city club of any kind, let alone a strip or sex club. I had questions, was intensely curious, and between the clover weed and my partner’s hands all over me less than a half hour before, I wasn’t the least bit shy anymore about asking those questions. The little voice in my head was frantically waving for me to stop. I kicked the door shut on my little voice. Party pooper.

I half turned on my tuffet toward Ian, my right leg crossing over my left, also toward Ian. My little voice was banging on the door and screaming at me.

“Are people listening with our table anymore?” I whispered.

Ian glanced at the glowing surface. “No.”

“Good. So, what is it with men and titty bars?”

Ian was only pretending to take a sip of his wine, but that didn’t stop him from nearly choking. “Pardon?”

“Titty bars, or as Grandma and Yasha call ’em, hoochy-koochy parlors. You’re a man, and don’t think I haven’t noticed,” I added in a singsong voice. “And we’re in a titty bar.” I glanced around with even more appreciation at the scenery. “Among other nice things. If you weren’t here to hunt and hog-tie some leprechauns, why would you be here?” I lowered my voice conspiratorially. “Come on, you can tell me. We’re partners.” My voice of reason was banging on the door in my head and screaming for me to Shut. Up.

Ian’s eyes were intent on mine. Lord, but they were nice. He was looking at something.

“What?” I swiped my tongue over my teeth. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

“No. Your pupils are enormous. Did you inhale some of that blue smoke?”

I shrugged, the movement only made the room do a half spin. “I’ve never inhaled.” I gave him a goofy grin. “But a girl’s gotta breathe.”

“Mac.”

“They blew it in my face, okay?”

“I thought so.” He took out his phone. “Can you still function?”

I looked him up and down with a lazy, appreciative smile. “I’m functioning just fine, darlin’.” The little voice groaned and gave up. Good. She was giving me another headache.

“I meant can you do your job?”

I had to think about that one. After pondering for a pleasantly dazed moment what my job was, and why I was doing it here, the blue-smoked brain fog parted ever so briefly.

“Do you mean whether I can still see little green men?”

“That’s right. Can you?”

I looked around. “Dunno. There ain’t none to be seen right now.”

Ian swore under his breath and dropped his head into his hand. “See Steve over at his table?”

“You mean Steve the elf?”

“Yes. Steve the elf. But can you see that he’s an elf?”

“Yeah. Pointy Spock ears, clear as day.”

Ian sighed in relief and put his phone away.

I didn’t mention that every bit of stress had floated out of my body. New job nerves? Gone. Awkwardness being in a sex club with my hot new partner? Buh-bye. Giving a damn what any man, woman, or combination thereof around me was doing? Vamoosied.

Suddenly my partner wasn’t the only badass at the table. I was starting to feel downright invincible. I felt the urge to pull a couple of tuffets together and make myself comfortable, maybe even put my feet up on the bugged-for-sound table and really give whoever was listening to us one hell of a show.

Oh yes, I felt much better. And I felt myself smile, which was pretty danged impressive considering that I couldn’t feel my lips anymore. Then the room spun in a slow, languorous circle.

Ian took a good look in my eyes and sighed in resignation. “Dammit, the boss didn’t tell me you were part elf.”

“I’m not.”

“Are you feeling good?”

“Quite.”

“Confident?”

“You know it.”

“Absurdly relaxed to the point of doing something stupid?”

I scooted my tuffet toward my delectable partner. If Ian wanted to ensure every man here knew I was taken, I was more than willing to help spread the word. “Why don’t you come over here and try me.”

“If you’re not an elf, clover weed shouldn’t affect you, but it does. We’ll deal with the why later. Right now, we need to find those other three leprechauns and get you the hell out of here.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I never said I was.”

Elana was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Elana?” I asked.

“With Yasha and our prisoners waiting for transport from HQ.”

The next dancer was slinking her way over to Mike and Steve’s table. She was acting awfully friendly, and I think the boys were about to become part of the next show.

“Shit,” Ian hissed in a whisper.

Their replacements hadn’t arrived yet, and Ian had wanted them to just sit at their table, mind their own business, and stay out of trouble until their replacements arrived. Let’s just say that due to the influence of the clover weed, the boys were getting into the spirit of the performance. Since our table was right up front, I got an all-too-close look at—and scent of—what covered Miss Congeniality’s costume.

I gaped in disbelief, then giggled. “Are those Red Hots?”

Ian started to get up. I grabbed his arm and sank my nails in, my eyes wide.

Oh. My. God.

Miss Red Hots was none other than our AWOL leprechaun prince.

If I’d ever needed proof that leprechauns liked practical jokes, the proof was staring Steve right in the face—or at least his . . . uh, her Red Hots-spangled G-string was. She’d already tossed her top on Mike’s head, and both elves looked like they were about to indulge their collective sweet tooth.

Prince Finnegan was a sex-shifting, cross-dressing leprechaun.

Well, they’d said back at headquarters that as far as shapeshifting went, leprechauns could go either way. Prince/Princess Finn looked like he was ready to go all the way.

If I hadn’t now seen it all, there wasn’t a damned thing left to look at.

I snuggled down beneath Ian’s arm like a woman on a date with a hot guy in an even hotter club. In addition to being fun, it also gave me cover to speak.

“Found him. Our little prince is playing with fire—or at least spicy-hot candy.”

Ian stiffened in realization next to me, and not in the fun way.

“You got it,” I told him. “That ain’t no woman.”

Ian’s only movement was an imperceptible upward twitch of his lip before his poker face smoothly slipped back into place. “Stare at him. When he looks at you—and he will—we’ve got him.”

“Can’t you make eye contact and get him?”

“I can’t see his true form. You can.”

Made sense.

“Think he knows who they are?” I asked.

“I think the probability is high. He . . . she came out from the back and made a beeline straight for them. I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

“Get the guys going and then change back into a leprechaun?”

Ian nodded once. “That’s what I’m thinking. He’s already humiliated five SPI agents tonight. I think he’s looking to add to his score—”

I snorted with laughter. “In more ways than one.”

Ian ignored me. “He’s also after the danger rush of turning into a leprechaun in the middle of a goblin sex club.”

“And after that?”

“He’ll run like hell, and I predict he’ll go out the way he came in.” My partner inclined his head toward the rear of the stage area.

“What are we going to do?”

Ian slowly set his drink down. “I’m going to grab and cuff the little bastard.”

“And run like hell.”

“Considering where we are, that would be the prudent course of action.”

“I’m right behind you, partner.”

I hadn’t known anything about leprechaun sexuality, and I’d already learned more than I ever wanted. Ask the average person on the street to describe a leprechaun, and you’d get the little green-coated guy on the Lucky Charms box. Come to think of it, I’d never even heard of female leprechauns; but since Finnegan here was getting married tomorrow, and leprechauns had yet to become extinct, I assumed there were at least two sexes. And from what I was watching, there might be more than that.

Though from the lascivious grin Finn was wearing—with little else—you had to wonder if leprechauns had a loose interpretation of gender, or if the future princess knew what she was getting into. Even if Mike had been a seer, the prince didn’t have to worry about being captured by his gaze. Mike’s dazed eyes hadn’t wandered north of her boobs the entire time. And at the moment, Steve’s drug-addled peepers were locked and loaded on the top of Finn’s G-string.

I had my eyes on Finnegan’s face, but it figured that the leprechaun only had eyes for Mike and Steve and their imminent humiliation.

Mild-mannered human financial advisor or lecherous leprechaun? Which one was Finnegan gonna change back into? Ian was right. If Finnegan was going for maximum fun and thrills, he’d go leprechaun.

Prince Finnegan dropped his glamour right along with his Red Hot–covered G-string, leaving the boys ogling a three-foot-tall, naked-as-the-day-he-was-born leprechaun. Quick as a drink-delivering pixie, Finn grabbed Mike by the ears and kissed him smack-dab on the lips.

Without making eye contact with any of us. Crafty little bastard.

Then all hell broke loose.

Mike was too stunned to grab him. Ian made the dive—and the catch. Finnegan caught Ian in the forehead with the heel of one tiny foot. Unfortunately, all the bouncers manning the stage area saw was Ian’s dive—and a now missing adult entertainer.

Oh crap.

Finn was unveiled and looked precisely like what he was. A leprechaun. SPI’s primary mission was to keep the presence of supernaturals a secret from the general population, including overly large and testosterone-laden bouncers charged with the safety of Bacchanalia employees, especially from grabby customers.

Ian had yanked Finn off the stage and out of sight, but when Ian hit the floor, he was on top of an overly endowed dancer wearing nothing but a vindictive smile. Two bouncers grabbed Ian. Finnegan squealed, giggled, and hightailed it toward the dressing rooms, not stumbling once in the only things she was still wearing. A pair of platform, six-inch heels.

I had a moment of open-mouthed amazement. Where the hell did a leprechaun learn to run in stripper heels?

Ian might have thought of himself as my babysitter, but dammit, the boss had told me he was my partner. Partners backed each other up.

The bouncers were easily double my weight, and while I had a Taser in my purse, I’d only have one chance to use it on one of them. The other no-necks running toward the melee weren’t going to stand by and tap their toes while it recharged.

Right now, the bouncers thought they had the troublemakers. The four shelves of desk flair back at the office told me that Ian could take care of himself, and if he needed help, Yasha and Elana were a hell of a lot more qualified to give it than I was. With a werewolf’s hearing, he was probably already in the building. That problem was taken care of. Finn had vanished behind a curtain, presumably leading to dressing rooms. Even an exhibitionist like Finn was unlikely to run outside while starkers. He’d have to slow down to grab something.

I’d have to catch Finn myself.

The bouncers, if they’d even noticed me at all, didn’t see me as any kind of a threat. And hopefully, between the liquor and the lights, any customer who saw Finnegan the naked leprechaun would talk themselves into believing they’d either had one or five drinks too many, or set up an appointment with their shrink to talk about what it meant to hallucinate a naked leprechaun in a sex club. I was sure it couldn’t have been the first time a naked man had run through Bacchanalia.

I pulled back the curtain and stopped.

Talk about a needle in a haystack.

Either the staff of Bacchanalia was seriously disorganized, or a tornado had just come through here. From what little the boys and girls out front had been wearing, you’d think there couldn’t be so many costumes strewn about.

Sparklies and spangles the likes of which I’d never seen in my life.

There wasn’t a leprechaun to be seen—though when you’re only three foot tall, hiding wouldn’t be difficult in this mess.

This was a dressing room in an exclusive sex club on a Friday night. When the fight started out front, any staff still in here must have run out the back. Considering that there might be a naked leprechaun hiding among the sequins and bugle beads, they’d made the right choice.

A naked leprechaun was many things, but scary wasn’t one of them.

But the man standing across the room from me was.

He wore a dark suit so well tailored it made Alain Moreau look like he shopped off the rack, with a long jacket that was more like a form-fitting frock coat.

He looked human.

But he wasn’t. No human male looked that perfect.

For one, a human couldn’t look that good on their best day. But mainly, it was the way he glided toward me so smoothly it was like he wasn’t using his feet that clued me in.

My seer vision showed me what he really was.

A goblin.

A goblin who dropped his glamour completely as he slowly came toward me.

In a word—wow.

Goblins were mainly nocturnal. They could be out during the day, but their dark eyes were painfully sensitive to sunlight. Goblins were tall, sleek, and sexy. Combine that with darkly seductive—and light-sensitive—eyes and you had a race that took sunglasses to the heights of high fashion. Goblins were gorgeous all by their lonesome, but they took their wardrobes and accessories just as seriously as their tangled court politics. Goblin politics was a full-contact—and often fatal—sport chock-full of seduction, deception, and betrayal.

Goblin hair was dark, often worn long, and the silkiness of it would make a Pantene shampoo model kill from jealousy. Their skin was pale gray, with a silvery sheen, their eyes dark, their ears upswept to a nibbleable point.

And they sported a pair of fangs that weren’t for decorative use only.

With supernaturals that had a tendency to prey on humans, I’d been taught how to act from a young age should I find myself in the presence of one. It all boiled down to one absolute rule—don’t act like prey. But faced with what was quite possibly the hottest creature I’d ever seen in my life, and under the influence of a drug that had essentially evaporated my inhibitions, I suddenly found that rule increasingly difficult to follow.

“Vivienne’s new seer.” The goblin’s voice was a whispered breath against my throat even from several feet away.

So much for being undercover.

“Uh . . . you have me at a disadvantage—”

A slow smile spread across the goblin’s unwholesomely handsome face. “But at least I have you.”

As he spoke, he came closer, and with a negligent flick of his long fingers, the door shut and locked behind me. Neat trick, said part of my brain; the other part was wondering what those fingers would feel like brushing against my throat, and was really hoping I’d get to find out.

“We fulfill fantasies here,” he all but purred. “What is yours, little seer? If you had the chance to gain your heart’s desire, what would it be?” He smiled, giving me a glimpse of fang. “And don’t say finding a certain leprechaun prince. I know that is far from what you truly want.” He gave me a dangerous, knowing smile, like he’d seen every dirty thought I’d ever had, flipped through them like a deck of cards, and set aside the ones he wanted us to try first.

“Sounds like we’re looking for the same guy.” I held my shaking hand out at hip height. “About this tall, red hair, green coat—unless he’s still naked. Turn-ons are amateur-night exotic dancing. Turnoffs include SPI bodyguards and goblin stalkers.”

I tried to take a step back, but my feet had other ideas. The goblin was now within arms’ reach. His. He noticed me noticing, and his laugh warmed the air around me.

“I don’t think he’s here,” I continued, “so I’ll just be on my way.”

The goblin’s lips quirked in a smile. “But then you would miss my proposition.”

Oh, I think I knew what he was proposing.

His easy smile stayed put, and I could feel his mind browsing through my thoughts. “I assure you, it’s strictly business—at least initially. I would like it very much if you would come and work for me.”

Eventually I managed to form words. “Is it the librarian outfit? Because I can assure you, no one wants to watch me strip.”

“I am quite certain you have many talents where you would least expect them, but those are not the talents I am interested in.” The goblin was directly in front of me, his face blocking the light—his eyes seemingly absorbing the rest. “We can save those for later exploration.”

“And if I say no?” My voice sounded tiny.

“Then I will be forced to destroy you.”

Just like that. Same silky, seductive voice—in one moment promising my deepest desires; and the next, my messy death.

“Isn’t that a little melodramatic?”

“I assure you it is an accurate description of what would happen to your physical body should I do this.” He did another negligent hand wave and vaporized a mannequin standing in the corner of the dressing room.

I swallowed. “You’re right. Destroyed is a good word for that.”

“Then you agree to my request.” He didn’t ask it as a question.

“How can I agree when you haven’t told me what the job is?”

His fangs were showing, but it wasn’t a smile. Like drawing a gun, he was simply showing me his weapons. And damned fine weapons they were.

“I require the same services you’re presently employing on Vivienne’s behalf.”

“And if I refuse and you ‘destroy’ me, then no one gets my services and I get dead—which is my big concern as you can imagine.”

“Then we are at an impasse,” he murmured.

“I’m not going to help you find any leprechauns, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I don’t need your help finding the remaining three leprechauns. You have two in custody. The third is in this room with us; and the remaining two have panicked and are attempting to flee my place of business as I speak.”

“Rake Danescu.”

“You’ve heard of me.”

“I’ve been told of you.”

“No doubt by your new partner.”

I ignored that. “If our quarry’s flying the coop, looks like we’re both out of luck.”

“Oh, I don’t believe so. My true quarry is right where I want her.” His dark eyes glittered in the dim light. “Almost.”

“I’m not your BOGO.”

The goblin arched one flawless eyebrow.

“Buy one, get one free.”

“What a charming concept.” He smiled at me, showing me all of his teeth, including two alarmingly sharp fangs—all dazzling white. Looked like SPI wasn’t the only supernatural organization with a good dental plan.

“I can feel the air quiver from his trembling—and yours.” His black eyes gleamed as they scanned the room. I half expected a forked tongue to dart out from between his full lips and taste the air. His eyes narrowed and those lips slowly curled in a smile. “And I can smell your fear—and arousal. Have you asked yourself why Vivienne assigned you to her most trusted agent?”

I tried to swallow with a bone-dry mouth. “To keep the newbie away from creatures like you?”

“Among many other reasons. There are things I can offer—things that you want—that Vivienne Sagadraco could never provide.”

And one of them was getting entirely too close.

I swallowed hard. “Yeah, these days good insurance is hard to come by.”

“When you are nearly immortal, you need not concern yourself with the injuries, sickness, and infirmities of age. Serve me well, and I could see to it that you are granted that gift.”

“Package that and you’d put the insurance companies out of business.” I was thinking fast, or trying to. Rake Danescu was getting closer, but my feet and—of more concern—the rest of me was making no effort to get farther away. In fact, parts of me were toying with open rebellion with my good sense.

“There are other benefits that are beyond your imagination,” the goblin said.

“I can imagine quite a bit.”

He gave a low laugh. “And I eagerly look forward to you telling me about each and every one.”

His smile went from dangerous to downright wicked, as he slid one long arm around my waist, pulling me tight against him. I didn’t know if it was a figment of my imagination or trick of the light, but I could swear the goblin’s eyes were getting larger and darker. With goblins, sex was just as much about power as what you did with the parts. And from what I was feeling, he wasn’t lacking in either department.

“Have you heard what happened to your predecessors?” he asked softly.

A chill ran from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. “One of them.”

“Would that be the exsanguination, the fall from the Empire State Building, or the unfortunate subway accident?”

“The first one.”

“You haven’t been told of the others?”

“Not yet.”

“Nor will you, unless you ask your new employer some very direct questions. Questions the senior management at SPI will find most uncomfortable. And an interesting fact concerning your American supernatural flora and fauna—North American sewer leeches don’t live this far north.”

I just stared.

“Yes, they lied to you.” He smiled slowly, as he slid his other hand down the length of my spine. “Would you like to know why?”

I was officially beyond words.

“Tell me, Makenna Fraser, have you seen any demons lately?”

“Present company excluded?”

He laughed softly. “Contrary to what many in this city—human and supernatural—think, greed is not good. There is nothing wrong with acquiring possessions that are pleasing to the senses—present company included—however, I know when to stop. Others do not share my restraint. There is danger in reaching too far without acknowledging the limits of your power. Such wanton arrogance could destroy us all. Vivienne has experienced difficulty protecting her seers. Perhaps you would be safer with me.”

There was a sneeze, and a pile of feather boas in the far corner poofed up in the blast of nasal air.

Rake Danescu released me and crossed the room faster than I could see, reached behind a pile of discarded costumes, and plucked out one very wanted leprechaun prince by the scruff of his scrawny neck.

“Ah, here is my little trespasser.” The goblin’s smile was more like a hungry hyena than anything else. And like a scared rabbit, the leprechaun couldn’t stop himself from looking at the predator that’d plucked him from his burrow of feathers. Prince Finnegan was no longer a naked human woman. He was something worse—a naked leprechaun. Ick didn’t even begin to cover it; and believe me, I wanted it covered.

Rake Danescu’s black eyes locked on Finn’s with all the warmth of a shark about to feed. What was about as bad as it could get for the prince was good for me. If Danescu wanted to keep his leprechaun prisoner, and right now, for my sake, I hoped he did, he couldn’t break eye contact, or Finn would vanish faster than tips in a stripper’s G-string.

And without those black eyes holding me hostage, I felt some semblance of sanity returning.

Now it was Prince Finnegan’s turn to panic. However, being a leprechaun with the gift of gab, he was trying to talk his way out of the mess he’d sneezed his way into.

His words came in a gush. “In exchange for my freedom, I will gladly grant you three wishes.”

Danescu smiled slowly. “Of course, you will. You will give me everything I want—including the name of who sent you here. I believe the clichéd wish is for you to give me riches, power, and my heart’s desire. I already possess all three, leaving you with nothing left with which to bargain. Why are you here, leprechaun?”

Finn grinned like a used car salesman who liked a challenge and had just met his match.

“If you consider carefully and wish well,” the leprechaun told the goblin, “you could accomplish what I know you want in only two wishes.” Finn waggled his bushy, red eyebrows. “Leaving you free to use your first wish to cleanse the human and elven stain from your place of business. For no extra charge, I can include the wolf man presently lurking in your alley, after which there will be no one to prove SPI’s agents were even here. Then we will be free to conduct our business in a civilized manner.”

The goblin’s expression darkened. “Be warned that my favor is not so cheaply bought—nor am I easily tempted. In fact, you may find both are priced more dearly than you’re prepared to pay. You toy with those best left unmolested.”

Finn jerked his head in my direction. “Yet you molest them freely.”

“I can do so because I have not your shortcomings.”

“The dragon uses humans as her agents. They are servants at best. They will do as they are told to avoid offending or angering our queen or your own most noble king. The balance of power is delicate now. They will not risk exposing our world to their own. We are the nobles of our peoples. We don’t need the permission of the hired help to do as we wish.”

“And you fail to recognize the value of ‘hired help.’ I never eliminate in haste that which I may need in the future.”

“Then use your first wish to have me put SPI’s agents to sleep for as long as would be convenient.”

“That could be convenient—and most entertaining.”

Rake Danescu never took his eyes off of Finn, but he didn’t need to when he could run his fingers under my blouse from clear across the room.

There was a muffled explosion, and Ian stood framed in all that was left of the locked door.

“Attacking my employees in my place of business?” Danescu asked Ian, his black eyes never leaving Finn’s. “And destroying my property? Vivienne’s control over her favorite guard dog isn’t as good as she believes. I have done nothing here. Merely giving a warm welcome to SPI’s latest seer to our fair city, and giving her advice she would do well to heed.”

“And kidnapping a leprechaun prince?”

“Escorting a Seelie court hooligan who is trespassing in a nonpublic area of my club. My intent is to send him on to where he deserves to be.” The goblin smiled as if at a private joke. “It is my own variation of a catch-and-release program.”

“You’ve caught him; release him. Now.”

“In good time.” His black eyes glittered from the shadows. “And that time will be mine; not yours.”

He shot a glance at the pile of costumes Finn had been hiding in. In the next instant, that pile was flying toward me and Ian.

Then the lights went out, and a door opened and slammed.

Shouts and screams came from the guest section of the club, and what sounded like a muffled explosion came from the other side of a door with one of those emergency exit signs over it. It appeared to be the only door out of this place. Ian ran across the room and threw his hip against the door bar, his gun in his hand, held low and ready. He checked the alley, his eyes alert to any movement.

The air smelled like rotten eggs, and it was all I could do not to gag.

“Sulfur,” Ian said.

“What the—”

“Leftovers from black magic. Looks like Danescu had an escape portal ready and waiting.”

We ran out the back door and into the alley to the sound of screeching tires, burning rubber, and gunshots.

Elana stood at the mouth of the alley, slamming a fresh magazine into her gun, and cussing a blue streak. The leprechauns formerly known as Khaki Guy and Jeans Guy were trussed up in magic manacles and propped up against the alley wall like a pair of Thanksgiving turkeys.

The Suburban was gone.

Ian sprinted to the end of the alley. I caught up to him a couple of seconds later.

“The last two leps got past me,” she growled. “Sorry, Ian.”

“Don’t worry; we’ll get them. They took the Suburban?”

Elana gave a sharp nod and lowered her gun, but she didn’t put it away. The look on her face said she really wanted to use it some more. Those leprechaun SUV-jackers better hope Elana didn’t catch them first.

“Where’s Yasha?” I asked.

Elana jerked her head in a vaguely skyward direction. “Up there. We’ve had company.”

Something heavy slammed into the brick wall two stories above our heads. Then came the shower of broken brick chunks.

Ian jerked me out of the way, and we both looked up.

I had no idea what they were, but the closest thing my panicked mind could come up with was one of those flying monkey things from The Wizard of Oz on steroids. They’d scared the crap out of me on TV when I was a kid; and their all-too-real distant cousin had me plenty terrified right here and now.

“Danescu’s club bouncers,” Ian explained. “For particularly stubborn guests.”

The winged monkey fell out of the sky and landed face-first and spread-eagle in the alley. Nothing landed that hard without being hurled.

Yasha leapt from the roof, shaking the now-cracked pavement under our feet when he landed. He snatched up the monkey by one ankle and slammed it repeatedly against the ground. Then he swung it a couple of times over his head and let it go. I didn’t know how far that monkey flew after Yasha launched it, but the squealing went on for way longer than you’d have thought.

Yasha the werewolf looked at the spot where the Suburban had been, and let out a blood-curdling howl. Then again, those leprechauns would be better off if Elana caught up to them first. I realized that the Suburban probably wasn’t the only thing of Yasha’s they’d stolen.

I think they’d taken his clothes.

“RAKE Danescu took Finn,” I told them.

“How?” Elana asked.

Ian smiled; it was the first real one I’d seen from him. “Portal. But when I tackled the little bastard on that stage, I tagged him in the left ass cheek with a tracking chip.”

That right there went above and beyond the call of duty. Ian Byrne deserved a medal.

“Best hope that chip of yours is multi-dimensional,” Elana said.

“Prince Finnegan wasn’t all Danescu got,” Ian continued, “he also got the identity and a look inside the mind of SPI’s newest seer.”

“He didn’t look inside my mind,” I protested.

“Did he touch you?”

Did he ever.

Elana chuckled. “From the look on your face, I’ll take that as a yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“Familiar with the word ‘enthralled’?” she asked.

“I’m not enthralled.”

“How hard did you try to escape?”

I thought about that.

Elana nodded knowingly. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Meaning that if Rake crosses your path again—”

“I’m screwed.”

“And if you’re lucky, it’ll be literal.”

“Elana,” Ian said in a warning tone.

She snorted. “Any woman and half the men I know would do Rake.”

Ian scowled. “It’s my job to have kept that from happening.”

“You had your hands full—and apparently so did Rake.”

There was no denying that. My favorite lady parts got all tingly again. I mentally smacked myself. Rake Danescu was gone and the residuals were enough to . . . what if he were here, his hands running over my . . . I smacked myself for real.

Elana nodded once. “Like I said, enthralled.”

“Okay, he was kind of hot. Doesn’t mean I’m enthralled; I just need one really good date is all.”

“New girl in town,” Elana mused. “New Southern girl. Play up that Scarlett O’Hara of yours, and I can fix you up.” She thought for a moment. “You don’t mind Yankees, do you?”

“As long as they don’t drink blood or eat brains.”

THE goblin had Finn. We had a tracking device on Finn. Rake Danescu had flying monkeys at his command. But we had an advantage that didn’t have a thing to do with minions or superior spy technology.

We had a naked Russian at the wheel—a really pissed, naked Russian.

In werewolf form, he’d have enough fur to cover the necessaries, but he wouldn’t fit in the truck, let alone be able to get his hands with their five-inch claws around the steering wheel. So shapeshifting back to a naked Russian it was.

I was trying not to look. Fortunately Yasha the naked human was nearly as hairy as Yasha the werewolf. Hugh Jackman had nothing on this guy.

Those leprechauns had stolen Yasha Kazakov’s tricked-out Suburban. It was his baby, his mobile office—hell, it was his partner. And his partner had been kidnapped and taken for a joyride by creatures that in their real form didn’t have legs long enough to reach the gas pedal.

A couple of hours ago, I would have felt sorry for the little guys, being chased by an enraged werewolf who’d already gone wolf once tonight and had beaten one of Rake Danescu’s bouncers like dirty laundry on a rock. But now? If—no, when—he caught up to those leprechauns, he was liable to squash them into green Play-Doh. And after all they’d put us through, I’d gladly hand Yasha the hammer.

The tracking chip Ian had planted on Finn was on the move, so we didn’t have time to wait for a replacement vehicle or prisoner transport from the SPI motor pool. Ian liberated a bakery delivery truck that was parked near the end of the block.

That was the best thing that’d happened to me all night. Until I smelled those cookies, I had no idea how hungry I was. A porn crawl through New York City sure worked up an appetite.

The truck was still half loaded with cookies and pastries in all their glorious forms and flavors. Technically it was stealing, but by rescuing Finn from Danescu’s clutches, we’d save the city from the effects of the goblin mage’s three wishes. When you thought of it that way, we were fueling up to prevent the spread of evil. That was noble, right?

Clover weed might not have been pot, but it obviously had the same side effects, at least for the leprechauns. The two stoned leprechauns had a bad case of the munchies, and anything that would keep them quiet was good.

Though after I told Ian how the little bastard had gleefully sold us out, Finn had better hope Rake Danescu used the Hand Wave of Destruction that he’d shown me on him. As a senior agent and chief agency ass kicker, Ian had first dibs when we caught up to him. If there was anything left, I’d gladly take seconds. Finn offered to put me to sleep so Danescu could have his way with me. That pissed me off; though I didn’t want to admit even to myself part of that was because I’d sleep through whatever the goblin did to me.

“I’ve so got to get a boyfriend,” I muttered.

“What?”

I winced at yet another pothole Yasha found. “Nothing.”

I was kneeling between the driver and passenger seats. The truck’s shocks were a thing of the past and were almost as worn out as I was.

Not that I wanted to watch the Russian werewolf’s kamikaze driving; in fact, I’d be happier not knowing how close we’d come to death any number of times. However, I usually called shotgun for a reason.

I was the poster child for car sickness. But with Ian literally riding shotgun, I made do the best I could and tried to convince my stomach and its contents of Coke and cookies not to leap into my throat every time Yasha found yet another pothole. I wasn’t even gonna allow myself to think about the state of my bladder. I’d been in a perfectly good ladies’ room, but thanks to the two leprechauns cuffed to one of the racks in the back of the delivery truck, I hadn’t had a chance to use it.

We were actually getting a signal from the tracking device, meaning that wherever Rake Danescu had taken Finn through the Rotten Egg Portal of Doom, at least they were still in our dimension. While we were following the flashing dot on Ian’s phone—yep, SPI had an app for tracking chips embedded in a leprechaun’s butt cheek—there was no time like the present to get some answers from my partner.

I was coming down from the effects of the clover weed, so while I wasn’t quite as forthright in my behavior and opinions, I felt like I was more than due some straight answers.

“When were you going to tell me I’m walking around wearing a bull’s-eye?”

With that, I had my partner’s full and undivided attention. I would have crossed my arms for visual effect, but they were occupied, death-gripping the cookie racks to keep me from ricocheting off the sides of the van, so I just went with a glare.

“Who tol—?” Realization hit. “Danescu. I should have known.”

“I should have known, too. You know, the boss knows, the hot bad guy—”

“Hot?”

“Hey, I thought we’d already established that. Besides, I’ll be honest if you will. I wasn’t told that taking a job as a seer at SPI came with an expiration date. Danescu told me I’d been lied to, and asked if I’d like to know why. I’d like that very much—without a side order of bullshit.”

Ian scowled.

“Sir,” I quickly added.

He ran the hand not holding the shotgun over his face, and for a moment, I got a look at Ian Byrne, just a tired guy with too much on his plate.

“There have been accidents—” he began.

“What kind of accidents involve exsang—”

“What at first were thought to be accidents.”

“You know differently now.”

“Without a doubt.”

“And I was hired to be the fourth sacrificial lamb because SPI needs a seer.”

“There were no sacrificial lambs. Yes, SPI needs a seer, now more than ever. My mission is to ensure that you’re alive to work for us for many years to come. Contrary to what Rake Danescu may have told you, and what you may now believe, Vivienne Sagadraco values each and every one of her employees. She takes the loss of any agent hard, and personally.”

At that, I felt bad about implying otherwise, but not bad enough to take back anything I’d said. They’d known what had happened to my predecessors. I’d been clueless, and they’d kept me that way. I’d signed on thinking I was getting a cool job with great insurance—not a ticking time bomb to a death sentence.

“We believe a powerful supernatural entity is planning a major event,” Ian said. “And they’ve killed three of our seers to keep it covered up. One death could be an unfortunate accident. Two is highly suspicious.”

“And three means an evil plot.”

Ian nodded. “That’s how we’re treating it, and that’s why Vivienne Sagadraco assigned me as your partner.”

“So you’re not a babysitter for the newbie; you’re a bodyguard for the next Dead Seer Walking.”

“There aren’t going to be any more deaths.” His expression darkened. “At least not on our side.”

“So I take it that ‘major event’ hasn’t shown signs of happening yet?”

Ian hesitated. “No. It hasn’t.”

We both knew what that meant. As long as I worked for SPI, and as long as the unknown “they” were still weaving their evil plot, I’d still be sporting a bull’s-eye.

“Rake Danescu offered me a job,” I said quietly.

The only thing that little factoid got out of my partner was a raised eyebrow. “Interesting.”

“Just interesting?”

“Also unexpected. Danescu doesn’t work with humans. He must need a seer badly.”

“He said it’d be the same work I’m doing for SPI, with an immortality bonus clause. Don’t worry,” I hurried to add, “I’m perfectly happy with just plain old major medical.”

“Sounds like Danescu doesn’t know any more about all this than we do.” Ian’s eyes narrowed. “But if he wants you—”

“You’re preaching to the choir. My granny told me all about strange men offering candy.”

Ian almost smiled. “Your grandmother sounds like a wise woman.”

I shrugged. “She also said to punch ’em in the throat, not the nuts. Always lead with the unexpected.”

Ian didn’t have a response for that. Grandma Fraser affected a lot of people that way.

“Since Danescu wanted to hire you,” Ian said, “it’s unlikely that he’s our culprit. And our culprit wants Danescu either taken out of the game, or watched closely enough to keep him from interfering.”

“The goblin thinks Finn is in on it. Finn offered him wishes and all he wanted to know was who sent him. Why would someone send Finn to Bacchanalia?”

“To get the reaction from us that they got. What better way to force SPI to bring its new seer out of the protective confines of headquarters?”

“Wouldn’t sending him to any goblin business do the same thing?”

Ian shook his head. “Rake Danescu is the Unseelie Court’s most powerful and unpredictable element, which makes him especially dangerous. With either the Seelie or Unseelie Court, anything is possible. Intrigue is a full-contact sport in both. But the risk of losing a leprechaun prince’s wishes to the Unseelie Court was too great for us to ignore.”

“Danescu wasn’t happy to find Finn there. He didn’t want wishes. He wanted a name.”

“The prince’s bachelor party was supposed to be a week ago,” Ian told me.

“When I was hired.”

“Yes.”

“Why did he put it off?”

“Unknown. But it correlates to when I was called to Chicago for a mission that turned out to be a false alarm.”

“Someone wanted to get you out of town.”

“Not provable; but again, that’s what we believe.”

“So Finn could be involved.”

There was a commotion from the back of the truck.

“You want me to make a wish?” Mike shouted. “I’ll make a wish. I wish you would shut up!”

Nerves were on edge, and any patience any of us may have had was long gone. Any creature that reduced a sweetheart like Mike to incoherent screaming deserved anything they had coming to them—or anything coming after them.

“Maybe we can trade those two for Finn.” I said it loud enough to ensure they heard me.

Yasha gave a borderline evil grin. “Is good plan.”

An instant later, something slammed into the side of the truck, and I was thrown across Ian’s lap and against the passenger window.

Ian swore. I would’ve made my own contribution, but the air’d been knocked out of me.

Just what we needed, an accident at o’dark thirty in the morning.

When I caught a glimpse of what’d hit us, my eyes danged near bugged out of my head. A face was pressed against the other side of the glass, leering at me as we were going seventy miles per hour.

It wasn’t a flying monkey.

It was a gargoyle.

Not that I’d ever seen a real-life, or whatever, gargoyle, but this thing filled out the checklist: all stone, freaking humongous, and uglier than homemade sin with a face only Quasimodo could love. Rake Danescu knew he was being followed and sent his minions to smash us into road paste.

I found some air. “Danescu?”

“He’s never used gargoyles before.”

Ian stood, pushed me behind him with one arm, and leveled the shotgun at the window. Before he could pull the trigger, a stone fist the size of my head slammed through the window, snapped open its huge hand to reveal claw-tipped fingers. The thing lunged right at me, the impact of its shoulder nearly bending the door in half. When the gargoyle couldn’t reach me, it started clawing at the steel door like it was a piñata and I was the chewy candy inside.

Holy mother.

Yasha was spitting a stream of nonstop Russian. I didn’t need translation to know he was cussing a blue streak.

The truck shuddered clear down to its axles when another gargoyle landed on the door, dinting the roof in a good foot. Me, Elana, and the boys hit the deck, and the leprechauns started shrieking their tiny lungs out as a fist the size of Yasha’s head slammed through the weakened steel and proceeded to peel back strips of metal, shucking the roof like it was an ear of corn.

Mike and Steve were firing out the shattered back windows at something I couldn’t see, and the leprechauns shrieked louder.

The gargoyle peeled off the passenger-side door in a scream of tortured metal, and Ian pulled me into the back of the truck.

Yasha retaliated by sharply jerking the steering wheel to the right and aiming the truck directly at a really solid-looking wall in what I assumed was an attempt to scrape the thing off like a cow pie off a boot.

It didn’t work.

Ian wasn’t so confident about the Russian’s plan. “Yasha. Wall. Wall!”

“I know. Hold on. Might hurt.”

Might?

The engine screamed past whatever limits it’d been designed to handle.

“Brace!”

It was all Ian yelled or needed to yell. The rest of us got the message—brace or be bounced.

The Russian werewolf continued to accelerate, surpassing any speed that was either safe or sane. The wall looked plenty solid. The truck was definitely decrepit, and I had a sinking feeling that rust was all that was holding it together.

The metal shelves looked sturdy enough and were bolted to the truck walls. Ian secured the shotgun, grabbed me with one arm and a shelf with the other. I grabbed a double handful of Ian as the right side of the truck smacked into the wall, raking the bricks, and raising a shower of sparks.

A third gargoyle landed on the rear bumper and punched out the last unbroken window in the truck.

One of the leprechauns fainted, and the other’s shrieks stopped as the little guy tried to hide behind a rack of cheese Danish. The gargoyle ignored him, Elana, and the elves.

He only had glowing eyes for me.

The gargoyle had his arm through the window to his armpit, or whatever gargoyles had, and was straining to get to me, stone fingers extended and grasping, the right-rear door panel buckling under the thing’s weight.

Elana pulled out a gun, the likes of which I’d never seen before, one that made Yasha’s look like a peashooter. She aimed, fired, and while I knew the gargoyle and the door it was hanging onto had to be clanking and pounding its way down the thankfully empty street behind us, I couldn’t hear a thing after the blast that’d come out of that gun. My eardrums felt like they’d exploded.

I guessed that was why I saw but didn’t hear the blast from Ian’s sawed-off shotgun that sent the gargoyle that’d grabbed at me tumbling ass over teakettle down the street after its buddy, minus its head.

Elana pointed the still-smoking muzzle up and at an angle toward where the second gargoyle had shucked enough of the roof to wedge itself through. She fired three shots in rapid succession, and after that, all I could see was empty sky.

Elana was looking around for more targets and seemed to be a mite disappointed that there weren’t any more to be seen—at least for now. And I didn’t miss her shooting a glance over at the two leprechauns, who during the ruckus had fainted dead away on a pile of squashed coconut-covered cream puffs.

I staggered up to where Ian was. “If Danescu didn’t send those things, then who did?”

Ian kept his eyes on the sky for gargoyle reinforcements. “I think those were an upgrade from sewer leeches.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “That wouldn’t have looked like an accident.”

“I think our culprit has passed the point of caring.”

THE beep from the tracking chip was continuous and the dot had stopped blinking.

Yasha pulled over where Ian indicated.

McDonald’s?

It was four in the morning. I was in a stolen bakery delivery truck that’d been nearly totaled by three gargoyles. In the truck with me were two hungover elves, a pair of stoned leprechauns with the munchies, a naked Russian werewolf, and a hot partner who was actually more of a bodyguard, in a race against a goblin dark mage to retrieve a leprechaun prince with a tracking chip embedded in his left ass cheek.

And the trail ended at a McDonald’s in the Bronx.

This had to be weird, even by SPI standards.

Thankfully the parking lot was empty. I scanned the roof anyway.

“No gargoyles,” I noted. “Or monkeys.”

Ian and his shotgun slid smoothly from the truck. “Maybe.” He held the barrel next to his leg, the stock resting against his hip. I had no doubt he could snap it up and take out any gargoyles like picking off ducks launching from a pond. I almost hoped they were hiding on the roof, just to watch him do it.

The agitated owner was pacing in the parking lot. To the guys, he was a middle-aged, balding man. I saw the hobgoblin that he really was. Ian started walking over to him; presumably to get some details and calm him down.

“Check it out,” Ian called back to Mike and Steve.

“Sir.”

The stolen Suburban was parked next to the door. Elana had retrieved Yasha’s clothes and was transferring the two leprechauns into it from the remains of the delivery truck. Yasha was presently being reunited with his beloved SUV, murmuring what must have been Russian endearments. He started to follow us.

“I need you to stay out here,” Ian told him. “We need to apprehend the leprechauns inside and take them home with all the pieces and parts they started the evening with.”

“I can leave arms and legs attached.”

I wasn’t convinced.

“I’m sure you can, my friend, but we need them not broken, too.” Ian wasn’t buying it, either.

“That could be a challenge,” Yasha admitted.

Mike and Steve opened the glass doors and stopped. Staring.

I walked up behind them. “They in there?”

Both agents jumped. “We’ll take care of it,” they said entirely too fast. “You don’t need to go in.”

I tensed further. “Danescu?”

“No, ma’am. Just two leprechauns, not veiled.”

“Where’s Finn?”

“Don’t see him.”

“What?” I pushed past them.

Mike was right. There were two leprechauns, and they weren’t veiled. They were in the indoor PlayPlace playground.

And they were as naked as a pair of jaybirds.

McDonald’s had rules about kids taking off their shoes before entering the PlayPlace. It was obvious that the leprechauns had decided to keep on going.

Thank God it was four in the morning. If it’d been an hour later, this neighborhood would be waking up and grabbing a coffee and a McWhatever to start their day. Anyone who set foot in here now would lose their appetites and wake up without the aid of caffeine, seeing things that were best left unseen.

One leprechaun was in the ball pit and the other was coming down the slide, his bare butt cheeks squeaking on the plastic. Neither one was Prince Finnegan.

Mike’s expression was a frozen grimace of disgust. “The owner’s going to need to hose down that ball pit and slide.”

Steve nodded. “More like powerwash. With Clorox.”

The leprechauns saw us and their eyes widened, and with a simultaneous squeak, both dove into the ball pit. Without hesitation, Mike and Steve ran across the restaurant and jumped in after them.

I came inside, letting the door close behind me. Ian would be in here any second, but in the meantime, I was going to find myself a leprechaun prince. I scanned the interior of the restaurant. The owner was still outside with Ian, and from all appearances, there wasn’t another soul in here. Behind me came the sounds of thrashing and balls being thrown.

“Son of a bitch bit my ankle!” Steve spat. Then he switched from English to Elvish for a few more choice words.

I detected movement behind the counter. Thankfully, it wasn’t tall enough to be Rake Danescu. Though I couldn’t imagine the goblin in a Mickey D’s in the Bronx with naked leprechauns. No amount of wishes could be worth that.

I peeked around the edge of the counter. Now that was a health code violation.

Prince Finnegan’s bare butt was perched on the edge of the steel counter, head tilted back with his open mouth under the nozzle of the soft serve ice cream machine.

He saw me and sat up, but took his sweet time doing it. He smiled and wiped the chocolate ice cream from the corner of his mouth with the back of one hand, leaving a smear across his face.

Oh yeah, the prince was a real class act.

“I escaped,” he said.

“Congratulations.”

“You don’t sound happy. We’re celebrating. Join us.”

“Celebrating what? That you and Rake Danescu were able to . . . let’s see, how did you say it? Conduct your business in a civilized manner after you cleansed the human and elf stain from his place of business.”

Finn laughed. “Mere words, love. The best way to escape a madman is to forge a connection with him, to have similar goals. A tactic, nothing more.”

“Uh-huh. As one of the aforementioned stains, I don’t appreciate your tactics.”

The leprechaun’s humor vanished as quickly as his clothes probably had. “And I don’t appreciate SPI’s interference. I did not ask for protection. If you hadn’t come after us, the goblin wouldn’t have found me. You led those goblins to us.” His smile slid into a chocolate-smeared smirk. “When you look at it that way, human, this is all your doing, not mine.”

I wasn’t going to take the bait.

“You set us up,” I said.

“Now what would be in that for me? Besides the satisfaction of making SPI look like witless fools. Which, as you must admit, didn’t take any effort on my part.”

“You tell me. What was in it for you?” I stopped merely looking at him, and locked eyes with the leprechaun. “Wish number one: Tell me who paid you to set us up.”

Finn chuckled. “Hmm, perhaps not as witless as I presumed. Very well, seer. Your answer: I do not know. And if you are truly not witless, then you know that I cannot speak a lie while under wish compulsion.”

Damn, he was right. “What did they give you in payment?”

“Your second wish?”

“It is.”

“I received an anonymous and most generous wedding gift of one hundred bars of gold. In the Seelie Court, favors are often exchanged anonymously. The gift was given with the provision that I lose my SPI bodyguards—making SPI look incompetent, which was a fond wish of mine—and after that, I was to go to Bacchanalia.”

“Do you make a habit of accepting gifts from people you don’t know who want you to go to the most dangerous club for a leprechaun in the city?”

“Is that your third wish?”

“Nope, just a question.”

“Very well. If the reward is large enough and the strings attached acceptable, then why should I not accept the gift? My friends and I didn’t want mortals underfoot on our night out, and Bacchanalia is the best sex club in the city. Why wouldn’t I want to go there?”

“To avoid being kidnapped and having a goblin mage rip three wishes out of you.”

“An acceptable risk, far outweighed by the gift and the delights to be had in Rake Danescu’s establishment.” Prince Finnegan leapt down from the counter, and began walking slowly toward me. “I was getting a good show with you and Rake.” His smirk slid into a leer. “I could tell that you were enjoying it.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Tell me, seer. Had I not sneezed, how far would you have let him take you?”

Finn had endangered me, my team, and was possibly involved in the murders of three SPI seers. It was all a game to him, a game that the sicker and more twisted it got, the better.

“It’s your first night with the agency, isn’t it?” Finn continued. “It hasn’t been the most flattering launch to your career as a seer. Leprechauns are lucky, you know.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “You could always rub my charms for good luck.”

I slipped my hand into my purse. I’d been wanting to use this all night.

I Tasered Prince Finnegan smack-dab in his Chicken McNuggets.

I looked down at the leprechaun twitching on the tile floor. “Do you feel lucky now, punk?”

Ian stepped up beside me. “I’d say his luck just ran out.”

I’D had a Coke, Egg McMuffin, two hash browns, and now there were five leprechauns in handcuffs, packaged for takeout and headed for home delivery—and I’d made use of the ladies’ room.

A good end to a bad night’s work.

I had a question for my partner. And while I really didn’t want to hear the answer, I’d rather hear it now than be publically embarrassed at headquarters like the first team.

“Am I in trouble for zapping Finn?”

Senior Agent Ian Byrne grimly considered his response.

Oh great, here it comes.

“When I arrived on the scene, I witnessed a suspect in a conspiracy endangering one of my agents. She took steps to protect herself without lasting permanent injury to the suspect. I’d say the situation was resolved in the most appropriate way possible given the circumstances.”

I tried not to smile. “So I did good?”

Ian’s face was an expressionless mask. Almost. “I didn’t say that. I said that it was appropriate given the circumstances.”

To my way of thinking, that meant I’d done good. But as long as “appropriate” wasn’t going to involve yelling, public humiliation, and conference room door slamming back at headquarters, I’d take it.

I didn’t think the boss would necessarily see me Tasering a leprechaun prince in the Happy Meal as a good thing, but I’d be more than happy to have Ian Byrne put that in his official report.

“Will the boss tell the Seelie queen what happened?”

Ian nodded. “She would have been honest with the queen, regardless of how it’d turned out with Finnegan and his boys, but especially now that he may be involved in something bigger. And she’d definitely want the queen to have the truth, rather than the tale Finn will be spinning to make himself look like an innocent victim.”

“She gonna tell the queen that her chief money handler is a disgusting little shit?”

“I’m sure Her Majesty already knows that.”

“Why the hell does she put up with him?”

“He’s good at what he does. You’ll discover that there’s a whole lot more black and gray than white in our line of work. The people and supernaturals we deal with will have motives stacked on top of schemes. Alliances are as knotted as an armful of Christmas tree lights—and about as impossible to untangle.”

We walked out into the parking lot where our team waited in the Suburban. A prisoner transport vehicle had arrived—with extra guards—to take the five leprechauns home.

“What about who’s behind this?” I asked.

“We picked up a few more clues tonight. He—or she—seems to want Rake Danescu out of the picture, meaning Danescu has them worried.”

“Meanwhile Danescu wants his own personal seer to get to the bottom of this on his own.”

“Probably to see if it’s interesting enough to want a piece of.”

“Finn said he escaped from Danescu.”

“I heard.”

I blinked. “You heard?”

“I listened to your entire exchange. I knew Finn would tell you things he’d never admit to me or in an SPI interrogation room.”

I nodded. “The word of the new SPI agent against a Seelie prince.” I growled. “Can I zap him again?”

“Twice would not be appropriate.”

“Too bad,” I muttered. “Why would Rake Danescu let him go?”

“Because I imagine we’re not the only ones tracking Finn. The identity of who’s pulling the prince’s strings might just be worth more to Danescu than three wishes from a leprechaun royal.”

“Three murdered seers and one goblin dark mage willing to give up three wishes from a leprechaun prince. That’s something ugly.”

“And big.”

A chill went through me. “Something a very powerful someone thinks they need to kill me to keep secret.”

“Danescu wants to hire you and keep you alive because his rival wants you dead. Goblins do like to piss each other off. Of more concern to me is how Danescu and his rival knew you had been dispatched from headquarters.”

“We have a spy at SPI?”

Ian’s expression darkened. “I hope not.”

BELVEDERE Castle in Central Park was wreathed in magic, gauzy tendrils covering the stone like the ivy did during the daylight hours. The fabric between dimensions was thinner in the moments of twilight and daybreak. Seelie guards in intricate armor—both male and female—patrolled the battlements.

We’d seen a few of NYPD’s mounted police on patrol. All of them near Belvedere Castle had been elves. Like I’d said, elves had a thing for law and order.

Yasha parked next to the prisoner transport, and as close to the castle’s doors as he could get. We got out and were hit with an overwhelming scent of flowers, like a hedge of gardenias. Normally I liked gardenias, but only a few at a time. This was like being smothered by a maze hedge of the things. Yeah, the veil between dimensions was thin, all right.

A limo pulled up moments later. Alain Moreau got out, turned back, and offered a gallant hand to Vivienne Sagadraco. Earlier in the evening, the five leprechauns were clients who needed protection. Now, they were being brought home wearing magical manacles riding in the back of a prisoner transport van. While they weren’t prisoners in the literal sense, more like clients who needed protecting from themselves, SPI/Seelie court relations demanded an explanation.

Ian and I were standing next to the Suburban.

“Surely the Seelie folks won’t be surprised to see their boys being brought home in a paddy wagon,” I said.

“I’m sure it’s happened before.”

I had an unpleasant thought. “Do you think the boss knows I zapped Finn?”

I detected a hint of a smile. “She knows.”

“And I still have a job?”

“You do.”

I sensed his eyes on me. I looked up at him, but his face was mostly hidden in darkness.

“Is it a job you still want?” he asked quietly.

I took a breath. “I kind of came into this thinking that most of the time, I’d be hunting for the supernatural equivalent of jaywalkers. I knew there’d be Big Bad Guys, but I kinda thought those would be the exception. Or did I just have a bad first night?”

“Yes . . . and no.”

“You could’ve stopped with the ‘yes.’ I’d have been perfectly happy.”

“But it wouldn’t have been the truth.”

“So now I’m due the truth?”

“You are.”

“Does the boss know that?”

“She will. I’ll tell her.”

I looked out over the lights shimmering on the surface of Turtle Pond. Peaceful. Quiet. Not like anything I’d encountered tonight.

“Thank you,” I told Ian.

“For what?”

“For honesty—and for being there for me tonight.”

“You’re my partner.”

“And you’re my reluctant partner. I heard you and Ms. Sagadraco talking in her office.”

“I know.”

We grew some silence between us. It wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, but at the same time, it didn’t exactly fill me with the warm and fuzzies.

“I am reluctant,” he admitted.

“More honesty is good.” What wasn’t good was the knot that’d just formed in the pit of my stomach.

“But I’m not reluctant in the way that you think,” he said. “I simply don’t want to involve another seer in this.”

“But you said yourself that it’ll take a seer to get to the bottom of it.”

“Correct.”

“So there’s no way around my being involved.”

“You wouldn’t be involved if you didn’t work for SPI. Do you want to stay?”

The knot grew larger. “I’m not a good enough seer?”

“I didn’t say that. Vivienne Sagadraco didn’t hire you without looking into your background—all of your background. Your family is well-known in supernatural law enforcement. She’s confident in your abilities.” I could see his eyes now. The sky was getting lighter; the sun would be up soon. “You’re good enough.”

“Thank you—again.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for. Merely giving my professional opinion.”

I smiled a little as I watched Alain Moreau and Vivienne Sagadraco talking with two very tall and impossibly beautiful courtiers. At least I assumed that was what they were.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Ian said. “Do you want to stay?”

“Something big is brewing.”

“It is.”

“It sounds like tonight was just another round in what could be a long fight. Probably the smartest thing I could do is turn tail and run home for the hills.”

“The file we have on you says you don’t always to the smartest thing.”

I felt one side of my mouth twitch upward. “Yeah, it’s a failing of mine.”

“I heard you telling Yasha earlier that you felt called to protect the prey from the predators.”

I smiled. “So I wasn’t the only one eavesdropping tonight.”

“A good agent always keeps their ears and eyes open.”

“And their mouth shut?”

“Sometimes that’s a good idea, too.”

“That’s another failing of mine.”

“I noticed.”

I nodded slowly, more to myself than anything else. “I’d like to stay. If you don’t think I’d screw this thing up six ways from Sunday.”

“I can’t predict any screwups, but I think that given the right training and discipline, you could do a lot of good.” He hesitated. “Can you live with being a target for a while? And having me be your shadow?”

“If I quit and the city went down the crapper, I’d feel like it was my fault. If I stay and do a good job, I could help stop it.” I looked up at him. “Though I’m gonna need a lot of help. I’m new at this.”

Ian Byrne held out his hand and I took it. “That’s what I’m here for, partner.”