Power walkers replace early morning stumblers, business attire and yoga pants trade places with clubwear. I don’t trust the earbuds and fitness trackers. Any hunter might use one of these as props, convenient ways to divert suspicion. All too easy to fall into a false sense of security.
The next bus pulls up as sunshine punctures the darkness on the horizon. Rays as sharp as knives stab pinpoints through fire-red clouds. Without a word, Max and I climb the steps and make our way to the very back. With Max tucked into the window seat, I guard the aisle, shifting my narrowed gaze from passenger to passenger. None look outright familiar, but one could still be a rival bounty hunter, or Amazon.
I’ll have to stay alert if I want to make it to the checkpoint without dying again today. With a rumble, the bus groans forward. Crossing my arms, I solidify my expression into one that challenges anyone to make eye-contact and rest my head against the seatback.
“Does that happen a lot?” Max asks.
The tendons along my neck cramp. “Does what happen a lot?”
“Hank coming to your rescue.”
I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth, but my gut reaction denial craters to ash and the truth spills out anyway. “Hank’s always there in a pinch. Gargoyles are naturally inclined to be helpful, but his superhero complex is more intense than most on account of his sister.”
“His sister?”
“Magical overdose a year or so before I left the fae realm.” I trace a thumbnail with my pointer finger. “He blames himself for her death. Something about not being supportive enough or protective enough or something. It’s ridiculous.”
Max rubs the puckered space between his brows. “Trauma and loss tend to do that to people. Paranormal or plain toast, wounds like that make us limp.”
I pick at one of my cuticles, then nod slowly. “I can’t argue with that. Can’t complain about it either. Half my bounties wouldn’t exist without those wounds.”
“People want justice,” Max says. “And when they don’t get it legally, they’ll go after it other ways.”
“What we do is legal. You heard Hank, I have a license and everything.”
“Where do you take your bounties? The Tribunal, or the person who placed the order?”
Shifting in my seat, I tap out a dissonant rhythm on my upper arm. There’s not a good answer for that. Unlike the humans, we’re not hired by a bail bondsman or anyone connected to our judicial system. And while our contracts all state that the one who orders the bounty ought to report to the paranormal government — officially known as the Tribunal — we never follow up to ensure that happens.
A little ball of nerves hardens in my stomach, but I swallow every response to Max’s question. He’s doing exactly what every fugitive does: trying to convince me to let him go by appealing to my sense of right and wrong, justice and injustice. It’s only galling me because he connected his own plight to mine. But I won’t fall for it.
No amount of empathy will blow me off course, not when fulfilling this bounty might put me on a path to breaking my curse.
5.
HALFWAY TO BREAUX BRIDGE, the bus blows a tire.
My heart rockets into my throat as it swerves onto the shoulder and slams to a stop. I sit up a little straighter, glaring out every window available, then analyze the reactions of our fellow passengers. Everyone groans. Some people pull out their phones. A few swear. All rational responses to the situation. But again, any rival bounty hunter or Amazon would be able to fake this easily.
The question is, do I pull Max out onto the street, or do we stay on the bus? Inside, we might get trapped. But this blown tire might be meant to drive us out into the open. My gut is absolutely no help. Not when everything in me resists either exposure or imprisonment. The driver, however, makes this decision for me.
She stands, adjusting her belt, and giving us a lop-sided grin. “Sorry ‘bout that folks.” One of her gold teeth flashes. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but we’re going to be a little delayed. Just sit tight and we’ll be back on the road in no time.”
More murmurs and profanity and grumbling. Little kids bounce in their seats, gripping chair backs as parents attempt to calm them, apologizing to other passengers for the disruption. One small girl asks over-loud, highly awkward questions to the clear horror of her red-faced mother.
Max pushes up from his seat, craning to look out the window opposite us before flopping back down. Pale light shifts over his face. Shadows slide down the smooth slope of his cheeks and cut a sharp edge to his already sharp jaw.
Sucking my lower lip, I tear my gaze away from his distracting features by digging into the pink backpack and pulling out a water bottle. “Here.” I slap it against his chest. “Don’t want you to dry out.”
A corner of Max’s mouth makes like it’s going to start a smile, then drops right back into place and twists the top open with a series of gentle cracks. “Thanks. Your boss didn’t seem to care about that much.” His dark eyes again dart around the bus.
“We all have different ways of working.” The excuse falls past my lips even as my guts twist.
Though I view my marks as, at bare minimum, low level criminals, I prefer not to make them suffer needlessly. I’ve always known that Yaritza tends to be rough with her bounties but drying out a fellow water spirit feels a little harsh,
