“Am I about to get the ‘I’m innocent and shouldn’t have a bounty on my head,’ speech?” I ask the mark, jingling my keys lightly.
Hands in the pockets of his jeans, he looks at me out of the corner of his eyes with a slight smile. “You wouldn’t buy it even if I did, mama. I prefer to save my breath for tactics that might actually work. Play it smart.” He wiggles his brows.
I laugh and lead him into the grassy yard of the safehouse, waving a hand to seal our way in once more. “Very wise. I’ve heard all the speeches and have been moved by none. Whether you deserve all this or not is none of my business. I’m just doing my job.”
Pure silver moonlight bleaches the matted grass under our feet, illuminates the cement steps and teal painted safehouse door. Another turn of the key and a second mumbled spell later and we slip inside. The bulbs overhead blink on with our movement. Nicer than my own studio apartment, and much quieter, the furniture here might as well still have price tags and plastic coverings.
“Man, Yaritza’s been holding out on me.” I trot to the small kitchen, pulling open cabinets, the pantry, and the fridge, fist bumping the air when I discover shelves stocked full of food.
Grabbing a bag of spicy pork skins and a bottle of tequila, I turn back to the mark. He lounges on the brown suede couch, one ankle resting on his knee, that arrogant smile settling back into place. Dark circles under his eyes stand in sharp contrast to this expression. Black tinges the veins in his arms, and even my professionalism can’t quite silence my empathy.
Yaritza isn’t known for being kind to her marks.
“Hungry?” I ask, twisting off the tequila cap and taking a slow sip.
“Thirsty. You’re looking at a pretty dehydrated water spirit.” He sweeps a hand down his form and for the first time I notice the cracks at the corners of his mouth, the patches of dry skin on his arms. “Not to complain, but if I pass out, you’re looking at having to literally carry me around, and I don’t think either of us wants that.”
“Definitely not.”
Tucking the tequila under an arm, I snag a water bottle out of the fridge, and toss it to him. No point in letting the guy get totally dried out. Hopping into the matching armchair, I tear open the bag of pork skins, and watch him chug without coming up for air.
At the bottom of the bottle, he lets out a heavy sigh. “Much better. Thanks, mama.”
I chomp on a pork rind, then cock my head to one side, studying his face. “Let’s get it out of the way. What is the sob story? Why should I let you go?”
The various tales my marks have told over the last three years always entertain me. From insane conspiracies to bribes, they all have a reason for why they’re innocent, or should be forgiven. Not one has ever swayed me. As I said before, no one is innocent, at least not purely speaking, and even if they are, it’s not my business.
Then again, if a group of Amazons cares what happens to him, things are definitely more complicated. A small tinge of fear climbs up my spine at the distinct possibility that this situation might be different than any I’ve encountered before. That this mark might actually be innocent.
I numb the terror with another mouthful of tequila.
Tapping the bottom of the water bottle against his knee, the mark points at me, flashing a pearly white grin. “Good karma.”
“I should let you go so I can get good karma?” I chuckle. “Honey, I’m a phoenix cursed to die every day, and I’ve been working as a bounty hunter for three years. Not sure a tiny dose of good karma will do me much good at this point.”
“Every little bit counts.” The mark’s grin spreads into a full-on smile. “If not for your own account, maybe future offspring. Your children will thank you.” He wiggles his brows suggestively.
With a slight huff, I stuff another pork rind into my mouth, chewing thoughtfully as we stare each other down. Knowing the way of most water spirits, it’s possible this kid seduced someone and fed off their energy to enhance his power. Did he kill them? Am I sitting across from a murderer? This wouldn’t be new for me, and I have a twin skeleton hanging in my wardrobe, but the thought is still discomforting.
The mark folds his arms over his chest. “How’d you end up cursed?”
I tilt the tequila back, letting the liquid burn down my throat before I respond. “My dad broke a contract with a rather vindictive witch. She decided to get her revenge on him by cursing me. Joke was on her though, because he doesn’t really care.”
Face pinched, the mark picks at thread on his shirt. “Ouch.”
“Yep.” I pull out a cigarette and spin it between my fingers. “I could pitch my story to a producer on that TV network with all those teen shows and probably make a fortune.”
The mark’s face smooths out with a grin. “I’ll battle you for it. My family drama’s pretty wicked too.”
“I’m not sure you can beat getting cursed for your crooked fae father.” I rock forward to rest my elbows on my knees. “Hit me.”
“I thought you didn’t want to hear my sob story.”
Sucking the seasoning off the end of my thumb, I glower, then hop out of the armchair. “Get some sleep. We’re leaving early. Take any bedroom except the one I’m about to crash in. If you show up in there using the pipes or your water spirit magic, I’ll let you dry out.”
“Wait.”
I wrinkle my nose and turn, expecting a quivering lower lip, or puppy-dog eyes. Instead, I again find a very sincere grin. “What?”
The mark rubs his jaw. “What do
