I flop onto one of the stools at the bar, resting my chin on a fist, then grinning at Hank as I draw in a deep breath of cedar and beard wax. Nothing like the comforts of home.
“What got you this time?” Hank asks, the hard muscles of his arms rippling the vibrant tattoos covering them.
I point to my temple with two fingers and make a gunshot sound with my mouth. “I need to work on my bobbing and weaving. He destroyed one of my favorite shirts. Very rude of him if you ask me. Also foolish with all that vampire strength available. Maybe he’s a late bloomer. Still getting used to his magic.”
Hank sets a tequila and lime in front of me, then props his elbows on the counter edge. “The dark blue one with giant pink flowers?”
I fake a sniffle, lifting my drink as if to toast it. “May it rest in ash and cinder.” Knocking back the tequila, I savor the vibrant warmth as it rolls through me, relaxing the residual tension from Tavia’s.
As I slam the glass back down, Hank strokes his beard. “Did you still get your mark?”
I scoff. “Please. That dope just got in a lucky shot. He is now secure in Tavia’s hands. I might feel a bit sorry for him if he hadn’t ruined my shirt.” Pursing my lips, I shove the tip of my tongue into the corner of my cheek, not even having to ask Hank for a refill.
He tilts the bottle sideways, his silver-gray eyes intent on the clear stream. The charmed medallion necklace he wears adds warmth to his marble-hard skin, and softens the tips of his sharpened canines, but its magic can’t quite normalize that penetrating gaze. Though his horns and wings only come out in a fight, his height and muscle mass alone are enough to terrify anyone considering making trouble at Guidry’s.
Under all this, though, is a big old softy who fosters kittens, teaches self-defense for free to victims of domestic violence, and plays Dungeons and Dragons on the weekends.
Hank sets the bottle back down, then reaches under the counter and places a box in front of me. Eyes bugging, I push my drink aside to tear at the tape. This tactic fails quickly. Laughing, Hanks swoops in with the assist, ripping it open with ease to reveal an identical Hawaiian shirt to the one I just lost.
I dig it out of the ruins of the package and hold it up like a trophy. “Hank. You’re the best. Best of the best. Don’t ever let anybody tell you different.” Hugging it to my chest, I lean forward, one eye narrowed. “Have you found anything about my curse?”
Hank sighs heavy through his nose. “Nothing yet. It’s difficult since the witch who placed it on you is dead.”
Disappointment hardens like a boulder in my chest, and I grimace. “Yeah, killing her was a mistake. Live and learn. That’s what they say, I think. Live and learn.”
“Don’t give up though,” Hank says. “I haven’t exhausted all my resources. Not yet.”
The front door bangs open. Spine tingling, I shove my shiny new shirt into my bag, then crane over my shoulder to see Yaritza waltz inside. Her long hair floats behind her like some sort of superhero in a leather jacket. A dude about my age follows her, his face tight in the way that all charmed bounties are.
Bruises spread across the tawny skin of his temples, his black hair sticks out in every direction, and a tear crawls up the edge of his t-shirt. Fire sparks in his dark eyes, though. They dart around the room, not desperate but sharp, alert, and when I meet his gaze, he smiles. All confidence and challenge. I rock back an inch or so, scrutinizing this expression, searching for twitches, cracks in what must be a mask for fear. Seeing none, I take a slow sip of my tequila.
Yaritza stops at the bar with him at her heels, resting an elbow on the counter next to the demolished box. “Fee, Theriot, be on alert,” she says under her breath, gripping the back of her bounty’s neck. “We have Amazons looking for us. This one’s got some powerful friends.”
Shock prickles up my spine. Hank straightens, snagging a bottle of whiskey, then pours Yaritza a drink. Though he doesn’t say anything, I can almost hear his thoughts. The involvement of these very justice-driven warriors means this mark is, at bare minimum, not a criminal. As a gargoyle, Hank will have a problem with this.
As an employee of a bar that’s partly owned by paranormal bounty hunters though? His position is more than a little shaky.
Glancing from Hank to Yaritza, I slide my lime around the rim of my glass. “Are they on your tail?”
The mark’s uninterrupted smile beams in my peripheral vision. It’s hard to resist looking at, and when I do, he winks. No one magically trapped by a bounty hunter should display this much confidence. No one. Suspicious. Way too suspicious.
Yaritza takes a slow inhale of her whiskey, then rolls her eyes. “I have their scrying blocked for now, so they won’t be able to pin down my location, but their witches are powerful. A fight is coming. Never a fan of going head-to-head with them, but the buyer isn’t someone you say no to. Be ready to preserve the contract at any cost.”
Side stepping the bar, drink in hand, she leads her mark to the stairs near the kitchen. I slump against my seat back, staring after them. “That’s not complicated.”
Hank runs a rag over the counter. “Not in the least.”
“I won’t tell anyone you heard the thing about the Amazons if you want.” I click my tongue. “Plausible deniability. No moral conundrums for you.”
Stroking his beard, Hank sighs. “Sure, would like to know more. If
