“What?” he says again.
I roll my eyes. “I need this job, so I’m not leaving. Over,” I say crisply before shoving the radio back into my holster and turning it to channel six instead of five, like a boss. That was the radio equivalent of blocking him and flipping him the bird, and I feel good about it.
Gripping my walking stick, I get back to work, vigilantly watching the graveyard as I pull out my flashlight to illuminate my way as the shadows creep closer. The air turns cool and quiet, and for the next few hours, I meander around, making this eighty-dollar-an-hour gig my bitch.
That is, until I hear voices in the mausoleum again.
Motherfucker.
4
I’m definitely not hearing things, because my ears are on point, so this must be Iceman or someone else still trying to fuck with me. I am not happy.
The voices get louder as I once again creep my way forward from the back of the mausoleum to the front. I have no idea how these pricks keep sneaking into this place without me seeing them, but I’m going to hand them their balls.
I still can’t tell exactly how many people are in there, but the voices are definitely still male, and this time, judging by their volume, they don’t care if they’re going to get caught. I bet Iceman and his buddies get off on this shit. All I know is, if they’re dressed in some Michael Myers masks, I’m going to junk punch them until they have no doubt about what their ball batter tastes like.
Pissed, I shove my flashlight into my holster and then tightly grip my walking stick in both hands like I’m about to swing at a baseball. I take a deep breath and charge to the door, letting out a piercing warrior cry as I run. On the outside, my don’t fuck with me face is in full effect, but on the inside, I’m cringing because, not only do I look like skirtless Xena, but now I fucking sound like her as I lalalala-scream my way inside.
I bust the door open like a total badass—anticipating the boom this time—and revel in the she-yell that now bounces off the walls of the enclosed space.
I lurch to a stop, staring at the three figures inside the mausoleum. They freeze and whirl around at my entry, and I squint in the dim moonlight as I take in the three men who are very obviously not the prankers or possible punk teenagers I was expecting. These three are all man. Even in the dim lighting, I can see they’re ripped and beefy as hell. They also don’t seem the least bit concerned about little old weapon-wielding me.
“Seriously, why are these Quīnque always so damn dramatic? Wonder how long this one will last?” one of them casually asks, looking me up and down. He has buzzed ghost-white hair and really pale skin, while his tanned blond friend looks like the kind of guy who spends a lot of time at the beach and says dude a lot.
I force myself to blink a couple of times, because I swear, the tattoos on the tall white-haired man’s arms just moved. When I focus on them though, they’re immobile, just like they should be. The lighting in here is messing with my eyes.
“We’re lucky we got anyone,” the surfer guy replies, totally nonplussed by my menacing presence. “Hmm. A female this time? That’s different.”
“Both of you sit still and shut up,” the third man says. He’s beefy with black skin and bright orange hair. And when I say black skin, I mean as dark as onyx and just as smooth. “Is she...does she see us?” he hisses out of the side of his mouth.
I do my best not to get hypnotized by his oddly colored hair. It looks orange, but there’s also some red and yellow streaks in it, and the roots are unusually black. It looks like slow moving lava. His colorist is clearly very skilled.
The white-haired man snorts and looks over at the others. “No, we’re fully warded,” he scoffs. “Quīnque can never see through those. She probably just senses something.”
I don’t understand why he keeps saying kinky, but I’m getting sick of them talking about me like I’m not here.
Surfer dude squints at me. “Wait...she is looking at us like she can see us,” he says, and he starts waving his hand from side to side like he expects me to follow it with my eyes.
I roll them instead. “Of course I can fucking see you, dimwits,” I say.
He looks shocked, his green eyes widening at my declaration. “What?” he asks as he takes a step closer to me and pushes back some long wavy blond strands out of his face.
“I said I can fucking see you. Obviously. If you were trying to play hide-and-seek, you suck at it,” I retort.
These guys are way too massive to be stuffed into this tight space, but I still can’t piece together how they got in here in the first place. Are they lost party guests or assholes trying to give me a hard time on my first night?
I run my gaze over each of them again. They’re dressed too casually to be hitting up the kind of fancy shindigs a place like Perdition Estate is bound to throw. So my guess would be that they’re Iceman’s friends and they’re trying to fuck with me.
“You assholes are trespassing on private property. I suggest you leave, or I’ll call the cops,” I lie. “Oh, and tell your Iceman friend that this was not cool,” I say, tightening my grip on my walking stick.
The three of them exchange a look of confusion, and for a moment, I can’t help but appreciate how hot they all are. Not in a normal way either.
