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  For a moment she looked into Beast’s teal eyes and wondered how this all might work. Minotaurs were few and far between on the surface, and Beast was the first one she’d ever met. As protectors of the Third Gate, Cacophony, they were known for their violent rages—but Beast hardly seemed to fit the berserker stereotype. Did he have a place outside of Hell or a circus attraction? He wasn’t a pet—they both knew that—but could he really function as a roommate or even a friend?

  Could minotaurs be more than monsters?

  She wanted to believe so. In the eight hours since they’d banded together, he hadn’t tried to murder her yet.

  “We’ll take the building,” she said. “But first, I have to go in to work for the last time. I mean, I’m going to quit after today’s run. Then we call the realtor, Cynthia, and go to work for ourselves. You’ll be the muscle for my bureau.” After a beat, she added, “And the secretary. Don’t leave the apartment unless you’re sure you can find your way back.”

  The minotaur stretched and fell back onto the couch hard enough to crack the frame. He let out a lazy yawn and waved his hand to chase her words away. Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought he seemed relieved.

  “Beast understands,” he said. “Will agree to demands. Answering phones is better than being tent sideshow.” His ears flattened at the memory, and she couldn’t help but regret having ordered him around, even inadvertently. He’d no doubt experienced enough of that to last him a lifetime.

  She turned the TV on and set the remote on the coffee table next to his kicked-up hooves. The few staticky channels it got were the only distraction she could offer him.

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” she said softly. “When we do this, we’ll do it as partners.”

  She wasn’t keen on adding him to her life plan so abruptly, but there seemed no helping it now. For better or worse, none of this would have been possible if it weren’t for him. Without their impromptu partnership, she’d be dead in a pit. So they were in this together, if that’s what he wanted.

  She grabbed her keys and wallet, pausing to look back at him from the front doorway. “I left a message for my client to let him know I’ve got the Mardoll. Once he sets a drop point, you won’t need to guard it any longer. Just try to relax. I know it might not feel like it, but you’re safe here.”

  The minotaur chuffed. “For now. But eventually Beast will be hunted again.”

  “By the Curators?”

  He dipped his big head, no longer willing to look at her, and her heart clenched.

  “If they come around here…we’ll deal with them. I don’t think they’ll find us too quickly, but if you need me, call the number on the fridge. There’s an extra key on the top shelf in the pantry. I’ll bring you some more clothes and groceries after work. Take care of Dinah while I’m gone.” She flashed a grin at the pair, Beast stretched wide across the couch and Dinah huddled in a ball next to the ottoman. “Be good, you two.”

  She eyed Beast, considering the idea of him wandering away with the curio. Maybe she should take him to a vet and get him microchipped. But if he wanted to run, he’d have tried it while she was sleeping.

  “Don’t lose the Mardoll,” she said.

  And then she was out the door.

  4

  It was mid-July in Baltimore, and the air in the car was stifling, stagnant. Gisele blew out a long breath and shifted uncomfortably in the front passenger seat. She wiped a clammy hand on the leg of her faded jeans and lifted her damp, dirty-blond hair from the back of her neck. She was dying to crack a window, but that would pop her shimmering little bubble—the Don’t-See-Me spell she’d weaved earlier, using the confines of the car to contain it. Perspiration beaded between her breasts.

  A blood-orange sun squatted low over the horizon, hazy in its descent. She’d been slumped and sweating for hours as she waited for her mark to make an appearance. As a half-demon, she could only uphold one spell at a time and had no knack for setting a weaving. She’d spent the first forty minutes wishing she’d splurged on an enchanted icepack. Now, she just longed for the end.

  She was on a final run for Warrick—though he didn’t know it yet—chasing an arsonist who’d broken bond. Their former client, a demon named Samuel the Stump, was currently costing them sixteen grand. And he was a slimy pig of a man.

  The money they’d fronted was enough of a risk to Warrick Investigations, LLP that she couldn’t afford to botch this. They were primarily a PI firm (the two-bit kind), but they also provided bail bonds and debt collections services to supplement payroll when things were slow. The place was a family business, run by Warrick and Susanna. They’d taken Gisele in off the streets when she was fourteen and for a long time it had only been the three of them.

  The couple were in their fifties, both hard as nails, and while she was certain they cared for her, neither had been suitable parental options for a homeless orphan with a rap sheet. Instead they’d gotten her an apartment, first month free, then expunged her record in exchange for a ten-year indentured contract.

  As a boss, Warrick was firm but fair. But he wasn’t a patient man, and this would likely be the second day their runner had slipped her.

  Of course, she hadn’t told him the reason Samuel had slipped her the day before was because she’d been busy working a job on the side. A job that had nearly gotten her killed later that night.

  Bringing Samuel in and recovering their bail—preferably after she’d jabbed a knee into his spleen a few times—was going to be the most satisfying job she’d worked in a while, not least because it would be her last as an indentured apprentice. The anticipation of this one last haul under contract was killing her.

  A loud tapping on the rear windshield startled her out of her thoughts. She jumped in her seat, banging her knees against the dash. Swearing, she swiveled and peered behind her.

  Shade.

  Gray eyes met her red ones coolly. Utterly impassive as usual, he gave a lazy, two-fingered salute. She took in the sight of his thick, wind-tousled hair, an ashy brown so dark it was almost black, and let her eyes rove the taut lines of his leather clad upper body. Heated attraction bloomed in her belly, but infuriation flared in her chest—he was ruining her cover.

  The thought must’ve shown on her face, because his lips curved into a rare, sun-bright grin. Her pulse soared, and she swallowed against the fluttering in her throat, loathing herself for wanting what that stupid smile promised, even though she’d sworn after a year of surviving on the streets to never need anyone, save herself, again.

  Face flushed with the emotional cocktail, she cracked the car door and felt the concealment spell burst like a bubble popped as she less-than-gracefully tumbled onto the street. The late afternoon air was a welcome breeze on her skin.

  She had no idea how Shade could stand to wear a biker jacket in the summer heat, unless he’d only just gotten off his ride. A quick glance around, however, turned up no signs of his black Harley.

  “What the hell’s your problem?” she demanded.

  Better yet, what was he even doing here? She was going to be more than pissed if he was hedging in on her tag.

  The smile lifting the corners of his mouth took on a harder edge. “It’s nice to see you, too.”

  He hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his fitted Moto-style jeans. Even slouching, Shade stood a head taller than her five-five. He was lean-muscled, broad-shouldered. At times, he could be charming and playful, but more often than not he was distant and shuttered. Bullheaded.

  And rougher than asphalt.

  He was also a mystery. A dangerous one, if her gut was to be trusted (which it was). Shade might be her coworker at Warrick’s, but she didn’t really know him. He’d shown up out of the blue a few months back, smelling fresh from the Hellmouth—like burnt oak and brimstone—with zero history on his background check. Since then she’d learned next to nothing about him, despite her best investigative attempts.

  If he’d arrived
through a regulated Hellmouth like D.C.’s, he should’ve trailed a record four miles long. But she’d found no travel documentation, nothing to his name. No way he’d been approved by the Protection Agency.

  She couldn’t understand what had convinced Warrick to hire him. Or how she still hadn’t gotten him fired.

  All she knew was that he had an annoying tendency to get in her way. Even when they weren’t working an account together, she seemed to bump into him more often than not.

  Like right now, for example. Or like last night, when she’d dreamed of him with black velvet wings, begging her to open her eyes as she lay aching on a checkered circus stage. For a moment, she looked him over, wondering if it were possible—but, no, it seemed almost laughably farfetched. And she couldn’t ask, for risk of outing herself.

  “I mean it. What the hell are you doing here?”

  Shade shrugged, his gaze faraway as he scrutinized the empty street between them and the residential lot. He unzipped his jacket and let it gape open, revealing a white cotton button-necked tee. Sweat-damp, the shirt clung to the grooves of his abdomen.

  Gisele fixed her eyes determinedly on his face. Damned if she’d let him catch her staring at the rest of him.

  “Thought I’d save you the trouble of casing an empty house,” he said. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “Not even.” Gisele scowled. “I’d have noticed if he left, thank you very much. I’ve got a—uh.” She caught herself just in time. “I’ve got sound surveillance on the back porch.”

  He leveled her with a bland, unconvinced expression, which she pointedly refused to acknowledge.

  She couldn’t exactly explain that she had a feeling about the house, like she’d almost blurted. It was obvious she wasn’t completely mundane—she had horns, for Lucifer’s sake. But she also didn’t have much magic to her name, so she preferred to be underestimated. When people thought you were harmless, rather than the stuff of their nightmares, it made it easier to get about in life. And when your opponents thought you posed little threat, well, it made it easier to grind them to dust.

  “Besides, if you think I’m going home so you can nab him and earn yourself a raise, you’re sorely mistaken.” She retrieved the red-handled .380 Smith & Wesson Bodyguard from her glove box, checked the safety, and sheathed it in a harness against the small of her back. “Warrick doesn’t give raises.”

  Shade was starting to look a little annoyed himself. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his neck. “I don’t think you should go in there. If you would check your damned text messages—”

  Just where did he get off? She knew what she was doing. She’d been an associate investigator-slash-bondswoman-slash-jack-of-all-trades for eight years now. He’d been with the LLP a whole twelve weeks and deemed it fit to order her around?

  “Well, I don’t care what you think. And I never gave you my number, so stop texting me.”

  He popped his jaw. “You didn’t. Warrick did.”

  “And that gives you the right—? No, never mind.” She shook her head. “I know what you’re trying to do. But this is my haul. I’m not about to go home empty-handed.”

  God, was she ever-loving pissed. She’d been waiting for the Stump to leave his hidey-hole all day, and now Shade had gone and blown her cover. And worse, he might be right. Maybe the demon had slipped her and she hadn’t even realized it.

  Aggravated, she took off across the yard, beelining for the front door. Her steel-studded boots left prints in the patchy, dry lawn, but she didn’t care.

  “Gigi!” Shade called after her, not far behind.

  She didn’t like how he’d picked up the familiar use of her name. It was one only special people in her life got to use—and that was a short list.

  “Don’t call me that,” she said, not slowing.

  His voice rose, hedging toward worry as he called, “Wait!”

  His fingers encircled her arm in a steel grip, but Gisele wasn’t a woman to be corralled. She reared back, body twisting into motion as she lashed out.

  Her senses weren’t wrong. They’d flared with her anger, and she’d felt it. Samuel the Stump was hiding in that house, and not Shade or anyone else was going to ruin her chance at taking him down. So what if entering an unknown enemy space was incredibly stupid? Now that her cover was blown, she didn’t have many options other than a direct approach.

  She was going in there and claiming her mark before he got away, even if she had to kick the damn front door down.

  That was exactly what she was in the process of doing.

  The paneled door splintered with a well-planted kick from her steel-studded boot, and then all ell broke loose.

  As an explosive blast punched her backwards through the air, two thoughts flashed through the back of her brain like heat lightning. One: she’d royally screwed up and this was going to get messy real fast. And two: how had Shade seen her in the car through the concealment spell?

  Then everything went black, for the second time in as many days.

  When she came to, she was staring up at the darkening sky. Her whole body throbbed with a dull pain, and she tasted the salty tang of blood on her tongue. Shade must’ve caught her, because he was holding her from behind, crushed between her and the brittle grass.

  If he’d meant to cushion her landing, he’d failed. His body was hard, unyielding.

  “Hng.” His arms loosened, and he rolled her to the side so he could breathe.

  She agreed with his assessment, but didn’t trust herself to speak. Her thoughts were buzzing, muzzy. And there was a faint ringing in her ears. She touched one absently and felt a trickle of blood.

  Where was her gun? She’d dropped it somewhere.

  “You are so—” He wheezed, sounding like he’d had the air stomped out of him, and struggled to a sitting position. “You’re going to be the death of me. I swear, you never listen.”

  Whatever he’d been going to call her—impulsive, reckless, dumb-fuck lucky—she didn’t care. She’d heard it all before.

  She held up a hand to stave off his reprimand. “I don’t have to listen to you,” she said, ignoring the fact that he’d been right about the danger. “What just happened?” Her voice sounded breathy and shallow.

  Now that she stopped to assess the situation, she could admit she’d been rash. She’d stormed into a dangerous situation because she was pissed at the thought of her mark slipping her and her final run—her career as she knew it—culminating in failure. And because she’d been pissed that Shade, of all people, had been the one to point it out.

  She could admit it to herself. But she wasn’t about to admit it to him.

  Losing your cool in the bounty hunting business often led to deadly mistakes. She could have gotten them both killed. Stupid, so stupid.

  She rubbed at her horns, ashamed.

  “We got blown up. You’re like a bull in a china shop.” Getting to his feet, he gestured at the charred, gaping hole that had once been the front door. “This is why I keep an eye on you.”

  Oh, hell no. Just like that, any guilt she’d been feeling vanished.

  She stood, fighting off a small wave of dizziness. Her head was starting to throb like it would split in two. It could be that even with her accelerated regeneration capabilities, she hadn’t fully recovered from the battering she’d put herself through the night before. Or maybe she just hated Shade this much.

  “Yeah? Well, don’t. Maybe you haven’t noticed,” she snarled, “but I’m working this one alone.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “I don’t need your help; you’re not even supposed to be here. Besides, if you hadn’t war—”

  Her words choked off before the thought left her lips. He’d advised her against approaching the house. He’d known about the trap.

  “You knew!” she accused. “You knew about this!”

  They were practically strangers, rivals more than friends. For all she knew, he’d cut a deal with Stumpy—but that didn’t make sense. He’
d tried to stop her.

  Maybe he’d had second thoughts. Or maybe he’d rigged the trap for Samuel, but she’d stupidly trampled in on it. But then why lie about the house being empty? Why cut in on her chase at all?

  Her head swam with the possibilities. Or from a concussion. But neither changed what she’d known all along: he couldn’t be trusted.

  Shade’s eyes widened, and for a brief moment she could see the hurt in them. Then his face snapped back to being unreadable, a mask of sullenness that she was all too used to seeing around the office.

  “Careful. Your horns are growing. And I didn’t know. Not about the door.” His jaw clenched tight with anger. “I had a hunch something might go sideways. That’s all.”

  She didn’t know what he meant about her horns. They were barely visible above the thick tangle of her hair. It was rare that they even ever gave a human pause.

  “A hunch, my ass. You can just stay the hell away from me.” She was the one who got hunches about things. And she hadn’t felt squat in warning about the house or the demon fugitive inside.

  “Not on your life.” He spat the words at her.

  For a moment she thought he might make a grab for her. But instead he looked away, staring down the empty street, his fingers bunched into fists. Whether he was furious or frustrated, she couldn’t tell.

  Damn Warrick for putting them in this position. He should’ve never asked Shade to look after her, should have never thought she needed it.

  The air grew heavy between them as Gisele tried to decide what to do. Even if Samuel was still in there, the house wasn’t safe to enter. And she couldn’t trust Shade at her back—he was lying to her. She knew it like if a feeling could be fact, like when she knew it was just about to rain. The way it was about to rain now.