“That’s where you’re wrong. I traveled all around the world and met all sorts of interesting people. Sure, I killed a lot of those same people, but I did meet them and often talked to them before I killed them.”
“You have a strange definition for cocktail party conversation.”
Shay shrugged and leaned her head back against the chair “People are less judgie when they’re about to die.”
“Word.”
“You have to accept that your old life is over as if it never existed. You’re never stepping back into that identity. If you’re willing, I can help you figure out the new Peyton. Hell, I’m doing it myself.”
“By becoming a tomb raider?”
“Among other things.” Shay pointed to her hair. “Like going back to my natural color. I’m gonna move to a new place, too. Shit like that.”
“I guess I can add a few more cubicle rooms.”
“Make a maze if you want and put a minotaur in the center.”
“All your shit would be safe then.” He looked over at her. “I saw how happy you were to see me.”
“You were asleep.”
Peyton let out a contented sigh. “Clever techies are hard to find. Especially the kind that will help you clean up after a kill.”
The smile faded from Shay’s face and she briefly shut her eyes, mapping out how to target Randy Coolidge.
“Are you meditating? A Zen master killer tomb raider.”
“My own version.”
“Good idea. Don’t point a weapon at me but you’re wound a little tight.”
“I’m glad you stayed, Peyton.”
“I know. Everybody needs a sidekick and these days a troll is hard to come by. Popular as fucking rock stars and I eat less.”
“Marginally…”
They didn’t speak about the funeral at all the following week even though it was the subtext behind every brief conversation.
Shay dedicated her week to training and pouring over historical research as a welcome distraction, waiting for Peyton to find the next client. She wasn’t used to waiting on anyone.
She was spending more time at Warehouse Two, if only to cut down on Peyton’s cabin fever, even if some of his outfits were like staring at a moving 3D image. She suspected the wardrobe was part of the reason he was still alive. It would be hard to fire straight at him without looking away.
Peyton convinced Shay to replace the couch with something larger that he immediately nicknamed couch island.
Shay found it a nice place to recline as she scrolled through the news. “Ever wonder how warped things would be if they didn’t have bounty hunters bringing in magical criminals? At least I had the decency to keep my killing in the shadows.”
Peyton blinked and looked up from his laptop. “New definition for decency but I’ll take it.” Peyton was lounging at the other end of the large, L-shaped sofa. He looked up from his laptop. “We should start a new kind of urban dictionary for hitmen. Bet it would sell a million copies. Why are you making that face? I know that one. You make it when you feel a disturbance in the force.”
“It’s not important. I’m annoyed at myself. I want Greg to call with a meeting time with Smite-Williams.” She looked at Peyton’s four-leaf clover shirt. At least his skinny jeans were normal. “Is that your lucky shirt?”
He arched an eyebrow and went back to looking at his screen. “Good one. Keep your murderous day job. You need more bait to tempt the fish.”
Shay shrugged and rested her head on her arms. “Maybe the guy’s just busy. Fuck him. I’m in no hurry.”
“That sounded totally believable. What if I told you that I have a job to distract you, complete with a fifty thousand euro down-payment, and a hundred and fifty thousand euro final payout?”
Shay bolted upright. “Give me details.”
“That was like throwing chum in the water. Remember a while back when I thought I had a lead on a job and the guy backed out? He wanted to cheap out on me.”
“I remember there wasn’t much more than that.”
Peyton gave Shay his best shit-eating grin. “He’s back and he’s ready to pay. Best part… The job is in Paris.”
Shay tilted her head. She could combine a little mini-vacation with the job. “Already liking it so far.”
“Forty years back, a businessman named Francois Martine had his mountain chalet robbed by a high-end cat burglar. A real expert. French police even suspected magic was involved because there were no clues other than a missing owl.”
“I remember reading about that heist. A solid gold owl.”
“That’s the one! The thief took only the one item. Ignored all the other art, jewelry, computers. Just wanted the owl.”
“The owner refused to say why it was so important. Everyone figured it was a solid gold artifact.”
Peyton nodded, smiling. “Give the tomb raider a kewpie doll. My research says it’s a magical artifact and has a lot more value than just being a big block of gold.”
“And what did the client say?”
“The client is Martine’s daughter, Elaine. She says the owl has been in her family for generations. There’s a bonus if we don’t press for details.”
“That’s a first. We’ll need to do a thorough background check to make sure we aren’t arming the devil.” Shay rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m guessing you have some leads.”
“Yeah, this is where it gets really weird.”
“Magic gets there eventually.”
Peyton shook his head. “No, that’s not the weird part. Not that long after the theft, rumors popped up on the net. Someone claiming to be the thief said he had the owl and left eleven clues to its whereabouts with five in a cipher that no one’s been able to figure out.”
“An actual treasure hunt with clues.”
“Initially, a lot of treasure hunters went after it, but a lot of them got cold feet when several turned up dead. The clues have always pointed to Paris.”
“A very big city with just as many old catacombs underground. Can you
