“I don’t.”
“What’s the Scylla curse?”
“I don’t know.”
Opening my eyes, I saw her standing directly in front of the window, staring at me with her dark green eyes. I lurched back, heart rate spiking and breath falling short. “What the fuck?” I asked.
“Find your new beginning,” she said, her breath fogging the glass. “Find your purpose. But don’t quit. I have felt your true power, and it is unrivaled.” With that, she climbed onto her bed and rolled away so her back faced me.
I shook my head and slowly navigated the holding area until I found myself back in Xander’s office. I collapsed onto the couch and leaned forward, unzipping the duffle bag and removing one of my Glock 17s—Bambico was her name. Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, I’d carved Nephilim runes into the metal on her grip, barrel, and sights.
Why had I done that, you ask?
Well, think of all the stories you’ve ever read about wizards or magic-wielders of any kind. How do they most often channel their magic? Wands or staffs, right? Well, since I’ve progressed with the times, I—at the ripe age of nineteen—had decided to channel my magic through guns. They focused my power and evoked the spells with more precision and less energy than using my body as an outlet. Looking back, I now realize why no one had ever chosen firearms before. They’re super impractical—there are so many working parts. Take a staff, for instance. You have a piece of thick wood carved with runes that you energize with magic, and that’s it. You can use the staff for defense, offense, whatever. Now, take my guns. They have frames and magazines and ammunition. They need to be cleaned and cared for. But the biggest headache of all is that I must continually restock my ammunition and carve more spells into each round. It’s a freaking nightmare at the best of times.
What’s that? Why don’t I just abandon my guns and use a staff or a wand?
Cue the wild laughter. Why don’t you just stop complaining about your job or your significant other or your children and replace them? These metallic machines of destruction that so many people hate are my loves, my passion, my babies. I didn’t just choose them, as the cliché goes. They chose me. Technically, I chose two of them after Callie died. Henrietta, my beautiful Glock, and Hansel, my assault rifle, had belonged to wife.
But you know what would be badass? A flipping sword.
Also, notice how I’m tiptoeing around the F-bomb at the moment. Not everyone enjoys the word as much as me. So, while I talk about my guns—which a lot people also hate—I figured I could tone down the profanity. You’re welcome.
But back to a sword. Maybe if I really did have a new type of mystery magic, and if I ever figured out how to use it, I would rethink the possibility of switching focuses.
Henrietta and Bambico just felt so good in my hands, though.
“You okay?” Xander asked, pulling my attention back to his dingy, community-college-professor office. “You haven’t said a word since coming back here. How did it go?”
“Like shit. She knew shit.” Sighing, I held Bambico to my beating heart. “And I was just reminiscing about when this girl took her first life. She was just a baby. They grow up so fast, don’t they?”
“You’re a very dark person sometimes.”
I smiled, disassembling my baby girl, going through the ritual of cleaning and lubricating her—no, not sexually, you pervert. I was about as happy as a boy playing with his sister’s Barbie dolls when another knock sounded on another door, and I about lost my shit. The next person to rap on anything within my vicinity would lose their knuckles.
In a voice so calm it angered me even further, Xander said, “Come in.”
6
That god of a man from the waiting room entered Xander’s office. From the stiff lobby chair, he hadn’t appeared short, by any means. But he also hadn’t seemed so tall that he’d have to duck under the office doorway—which he did.
Xander stood from his creaky chair and wheeled it around to the front of his desk. He stepped back and extended a hand to the sexiest man of the year. “I’m Detective Shells. Please, use my chair. I usually reserve the sofa for my clients, but… well, as you can see, it’s occupied by an overgrown child.”
Wow, low blow. He knew I was crushing hard on the visitor, and he had to embarrass me like that. Dick move. “Hi,” I said, waving at our friend with Bambico, trying to save face after Xander’s insult. “I’m the aforementioned overgrown child. Some people call me Joey, most just call me for dat booty.”
The man cocked his head as if admiring a strange, exotic animal behind the safety of a glass wall. He returned his attention to Xander and shook his hand. “I’m Gladas.”
Now, that’s just not fair. This guy, who Michelangelo could have chiseled from stone, was Gladas. The Gladas. Unable to control myself, I snorted laughter. Had I been drinking something, it would have streamed from my nostrils. “Did you say your name is Gladas? Like the name of my grandma’s grandma?”
The man adjusted his clipped tie and cleared his throat. “My name is Gladas,” he repeated, glancing at his feet, which was the last gesture I would expect from someone like him.
“Like the—” Xander shot me a dagger glare, and I relented. How had he already found and scheduled a meeting with the same Gladas that Dakota had told us about yesterday—the Demi created by Circe? It didn’t seem probable, let alone possible. Yet, here we were, Xander eyeballing me to shut the hell up.
“Please, sit,” Xander said, gesturing Gladas toward the chair again.
Gladas unbuttoned his suit coat and sat. “Thank you.” He kept his gaze low, never meeting Xander’s eyes.
“I’m sorry for making you wait out there. I didn’t anticipate you
