Thumbs flying over the screen, he edited my response to make it alpha—and mother—appropriate.
“Momma’s boy,” I coughed into my fist then cleared my throat. “Must be those darn allergies again.”
Midas didn’t rise to the bait, which was a pity, but he did flash me her response.
>> Steak or chicken?
“Is this a wedding rehearsal?” I joked then sobered when he didn’t laugh. “Midas?”
“We’ll go with steak.” He fired off one last text then pocketed his cell. “See you later.”
“Midas.”
“I’ll bring home dinner.”
“Midas.”
“Be safe out there.”
“Midas.”
He backed through the door and shut it behind him with a soft click.
A pathetic imitation of a gwyllgi snarl curled my lip as I raised my fist to pound on the door, or on him.
“Forget Prince Charming,” a snarky voice rang out behind me. “I got a hot tip you’re going to love.”
A hard jerk was as far as I let my startled jump make it before I crushed the impulse flat.
Ambrose, however, glided across the pavement in an oily slick that puddled beneath Remy.
Tonight she paired shredded black tights underneath a sparkly black leotard topped with a frilly neon-green tutu. Her combat boots weighed more than she did, and she had added spiked metal studs to the toes since I saw her last. A lace half glove covered her left hand, and her nails had that glow-in-the-dark murky tint to them. Her makeup matched, and there was a lot of it.
“The eighties called.” I mimed holding up a phone. “They want Madonna back.”
“Midas is right about one thing.” She bared her needlelike teeth. “You’re not funny.”
Ambrose bounced his shoulders in mocking laughter that made me want to stab him.
More than usual.
“He smiles at my jokes.” I buffed my nails on my tank top. “He even laughed once.”
“He also wants in your pants.” She snorted. “I could fake a giggle if it got me laid too.”
I almost said Midas isn’t ready for what’s in my pants, but I didn’t want to give her ammo to use against him.
Aside from snuggles, nibbles, and smooches that left me hot and him bothered—if the hardness where his hips tucked against my backside were any indication—sleep was all we had done together. So far.
“Walk with me.” I waved her on. “I need to get home and shower.”
“No time.” She mashed a button on her cell that had mine chiming with an incoming text. “You’ll have to go as is.”
“Go?” After wrestling my phone free of my armband, I pulled up our thread. “Where?”
“I forwarded the deets I got from Seven.” She snapped out a mock salute then started walking backward down the craggy sidewalk. “I’ve got to get to work.” She grinned. “So do you.”
Remy was fae. A macalla, if you wanted to get technical. Or simply an echo in layman’s terms. She could split herself into eight sentient halves, or halves of halves, or halves of halves of halves, as the case may be. Make that seven, since Eight had been reabsorbed into the collective upon her death.
In addition to taking over my Peachy Keen Sheets kiosk at the mall, Remy dispatched her other selves on intel-gathering missions across the city to give me more time to focus on nailing my POA apprenticeship.
Goddess knows, I needed all the help I could get with the witchborn fae coven still at large and Natisha’s bargain hanging over our heads.
And that became doubly true after I skimmed the information she sent.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
From down the empty sidewalk, I swore I heard her laughing.
Two
Deric Mendelsohn skipped through the Fountain of Rings in Centennial Olympic Park. Five females, his current harem, chased after him. Except for the two who were pregnant. They waddled with determined grunts. Twelve females sat in puddles, some of their own making, laughing hysterically.
They were all nude as the day they were born.
Except for the one wearing a black thong as an eyepatch. She kept yelling arrr while slashing her hooked finger through the air.
“Mr. Mendelsohn.” I kept a safe distance from the action. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to exit the fountain and put on some clothes.”
“You’ll have to catch me first.” His untamed laughter filled the night. “Better hurry.”
No one who had spent five seconds with Mendelsohn would accuse him of being the sharpest tool in the shed. Even if the shed caught fire with him in it and burned to the ground, reducing everything to ashes.
No, wait.
That last part was wishful thinking.
Ambrose cocked his head, his attention focused behind me, alerting me to an approaching presence.
“He’s been like this for an hour,” rasped a voice raw from yelling. “They’ve all been like this.”
Happy for any excuse to look away before the exhibition caused permanent blindness, I cut my eyes and angled my chin toward her in acknowledgment. The others I kept in my periphery, wary of their wild abandon in a public space.
Dim recognition sparked from the late stages of the Bonnie Diaz case as I took in the details of the woman’s outfit. She had been wearing a sundress the last time we met too. “Gayle, right?”
“That’s me.” She worried her top dress button until its fraying thread snapped, and the disc fell into her hand. “I’m the one who called.”
The start of a headache throbbed behind my right eye. “Who did you call?”
“The OPA.” She produced a creased business card with my information. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
Yet somehow, instead of Bishop, she had gotten ahold of Remy. No other explanation came to mind for the tip from my employee that would explain why the team at the OPA had yet to update me. Remy had hacked the Swyft database for her own purposes. She might have jacked our forwarding service too.
If that was the case, when Bishop found out—if he didn’t already know—he would be pissed.
“You did right.” I folded her hand over the card, urging her to keep it. A contact inside their
