Ian Byrne hadn’t said a thing when he’d first heard me talk. And being in HSR, Jenny knew where I was from, and some of her relatives lived in the Mississippi River, so my accent wasn’t big deal. She thought it was charming. Though I’d found out since moving to New York that “charming” most often translated to “redneck.”
Hand Crusher smirked and muttered something under his breath. I only heard two words—“Elly May”—and they told me the gist of the rest.
Yeah, I’m from the South and the mountains. Sure, I’m a woman and a blonde, but calling me a “hillbilly”—either indirectly or right up in my face—stepped up to and over any and every line I had. But if I was going to channel Elly May Clampett, I’d have told him that “them there’s fightin’ words,” put him in a headlock, and sicced my pet raccoon on him. But I wasn’t going to channel anyone or dignify his comments with a response. At least not yet. However, that snide remark plus the hand crush had earned him a spot on my shit list that he’d have to work damn hard to get off of.
“Yes, Agent Fraser. It is the East Coast seat of the Seelie Court,” Moreau replied. “The court exists in the same space, but in a dimension next to ours, effectively keeping it hidden from humans.”
Now that was cool. Note to self: Check out Belvedere again, and this time pay closer attention.
“It would reflect poorly on our skills to return fewer leprechauns than we were assigned to protect,” he continued smoothly. “The best outcome of this evening’s shenanigans is political embarrassment. The worst would be if Prince Finnegan or his friends are captured by agents of the Unseelie Court. Leprechauns are the bankers of the Seelie Court. It could give those agents the means to send the economy of the supernatural world into a downward spiral should they gain access to the gold stores; but the security of those potential wishes is our paramount concern. The prince would have no choice but to grant his captor three wishes. And coming from a leprechaun prince, those wishes would carry world-altering power.” He leveled a stare at the assembled agents. “It is critical that those wishes not be made or granted.”
That explained a lot. I didn’t think folks would be getting so worked up if this was only about some leprechauns missing curfew.
“Specifically who can we expect to run into out there?” I asked.
Hand Crusher snorted, then grunted in pain as another agent kicked him under the table. Either I had a defender, or someone just didn’t like bad manners. I’d take either one.
“Any number of things that call a lair—or the underside of a rock—home. But for something of this importance, our most likely opposition will be goblins.”
Oh crap.
On the list of things your momma warned you about, goblins were in the same class as fast boys in faster trucks times a couple hundred. There were some things humans didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of resisting, and goblins lounged seductively at the top of the list.
“Photos of Prince Finnegan and his party—actual and glamours—are being e-mailed to your phones,” the ogre continued. “There’s not much chance of the boys running around town looking like the supporting cast from Darby O’Gill and the Little People, but you never know. His Highness and his companions were inebriated when they were picked up, and since drunk leprechauns don’t make the best decisions, their behavior for the remainder of the evening is an unknown factor. You’ll also receive a list of the clubs they wanted to go to, but if they want to throw us off, they won’t stick to the list. Most of the clubs on the list have surveillance cameras, though not all, as we’re not exactly dealing with high-class establishments.”
An agent laughed. “Just find the club where the girls are getting gold pieces instead of dollars.”
“They had us run by an ATM,” one of the original team muttered. “They’ve got cash.”
Laughs were joined by snorts. I couldn’t help it; I joined in.
“When a leprechaun goes out on the town or out of town, they have a bottomless money bag tied to their belts,” the ogre explained. “This pouch goes straight to their personal pot of gold.”
“Add muggers to the list,” Ian said.
“Then that mugger would be getting back fewer fingers than they went in with. Gold’s not all that’s lurking at the bottom of those bags. Flash the photos around to bouncers and bartenders. Five leprechauns on the town will definitely be making use of the bars wherever they go. Thankfully, there’s one thing we know for sure—they’ll be sticking together. Find one, and you’ll find them all.”
“Has the queen been told that they’re missing?” I asked.
“Not until this agency has expended every resource available to us to locate and apprehend them. As our seer, you are our best—and potentially last—resource.”
I caught a glimpse of yet another smirk from Hand Crusher. Someone wanted me to screw up even worse than he already had. Too bad I wasn’t close enough to kick him myself, or I’d have taken a shot.
“We thought the agents assigned to the bodyguard duty would be more than adequate for the task.” Moreau’s eyes narrowed at Hand Crusher. Busted. “We were wrong. We underestimated our charges’ craftiness—as well as our agents’ discipline. I, as well as Madame Sagadraco, am disappointed in how the situation was allowed to deteriorate.” His cold eyes lingered over the first team of agents. “Neither she nor I wish to experience that disappointment again.”
Silence. The scared kind. I joined in. The first team had failed their test. Mine was just beginning.
This was the kind of assignment no corporate newbie wanted to get on their first night on the job. A race against goblin agents of the Unseelie Court while we hit New York’s strip joints, and me with a partner who considered the assignment as glorified babysitting, searching for a pack of horny, shapeshifting leprechauns looking to get lucky.
A group of us took the elevator down to SPI’s parking garage in silence. Moments later, a pair of steel doors slid apart in a whisper of air, opening into one of the city’s many abandoned subway tunnels. In this particular tunnel, the tracks had been removed, and the ground smoothed and paved into a parking garage. Beyond, what looked like a perfectly normal street—except it was more than five stories underground—stretched into the distance; I’d seen it once on my orientation tour of the complex.
A shadow suddenly loomed in—and over—my peripheral vision.
“This is Yasha Kazakov,” Ian said from beside me. “He’ll be our driver and backup.”
I turned in the direction Ian indicated, extended my hand, and froze.
Yasha Kazakov was a werewolf.
At least that was the aura my seer vision showed me.
Though, believe it or not, that wasn’t why I was staring. I’d seen werewolves before; I’d just never seen one carrying a massive .45 in a shoulder rig, and wearing fatigues and a T-shirt that read: “Don’t run, you’ll only die tired.”
And if that wasn’t enough—and it was plenty—he was big, somewhere between six foot seven and Sasquatch. His hair was brown trying real hard to be red. Add the werewolf aura my seer vision showed me, and Yasha Kazakov was well over seven foot tall.
“In a city where there are more supernatural perps than parking spaces, having a reliable drop-off and pick-up guy’s a must-have,” Ian told me. “And there’s no one better at turning a rampaging monster into a hood ornament.”
The Russian stuck out a paw that promptly engulfed mine. “I am Yasha.” His accent was almost as thick as his chest. His grip was human firm, not werewolf crushing. I was glad he’d learned to ease up before he got ahold of me.
“Makenna,” I managed, my voice sounding almost as small as I felt. “Call me Mac.”
The Russian gave a quick nod and a smile, and gave me my hand back with everything intact. “Mac.” He looked at Ian and the smile broadened into a grin on the verge of becoming a laugh. “Which den of sin do we visit first?”