Wanted: Undead or Alive

Bona Fide Credentials

Which car was I supposed to take? I searched for a place to set down my burden and found a sturdy gray electrical box in the corner. I dropped the pile of books, weapons, and restraints on top of it and gave my arms a stretch and a wiggle to recover before hitting the lock button on the key fob. Two short beeps drew my attention to a Honda Accord, black of course. It wasn't sexy, but the tailpipe appeared to be firmly attached and I'd be willing to bet it had heated seats.

I scooped up my books and possibly illegal weapon and headed to the car.

It's probably not illegal if I'm a bail bondsman.

But am I a bail bondsman? There must be more to it than being handed a file and given verbal permission. Didn't I have to take a test or something?

This has to be illegal.

I peeked back at the elevator.

I looked at the car. I bet it had a brand-new battery.

I considered the twenties still warming my pocket.

Would they give golden handcuffs and holy bullets to just anyone?

Probably, what mattered was that Nick had the right permissions from... From who? From the writers of The Code who policed the supernatural population? That wasn't Chantelle, I was certain of that. But to stay on point, Nick hired me, and he had the legal authority to do that. Probably.

That seemed legit. Or at least legit enough for me at that moment. The clock was ticking on that phone bill. If I played my cards right, I could pay the phone bill, put gas in my car, and buy groceries, all in the same week. I might even have enough left over to get those new earbuds I've been thinking about. And that right there is living the dream, in my humble opinion.

I opened the door of the Honda and dropped my stuff on the passenger seat. The engine turned over on the first try and hummed quietly. My buns were warmed before I got to the garage's exit. The clattering metal door rolled upward as I approached on a steep incline. I crested the edge of the ramp and found myself staring at my Chevy, still parked at the edge of the lot, not far from the Walmart loading docks.

"Son of a bitch!" I twisted around in my seat and peered into the dusky interior of the parking garage. I relaxed and stared at my car.

He really does live at Walmart.

How many times had I bought toilet paper and menstrual disks right over Nick's agency? Or whatever you call it.

Hey, if it's an agency, does that mean I'm Agent Olivia Nowicki?

I grinned a little. I couldn't help it.

I pulled up next to my Chevy, grabbed my jacket and my cell phone charger, and tossed them into the Honda. Then I drove it down into the garage and hoofed it back up the ramp. Finally, I slipped on my shades and tore out of the parking lot in my hot new Honda that looked, and more importantly, sounded, exactly like pretty much every other car on the road. It really is the little things that make life good.

By 9:30 I'd carried my groceries, reading material, and possibly illegal weapon inside. I hid the gun under my pillow, decided that was stupid, tucked it in the waistband of my jeans, worried about getting shot in the lady bits, and finally stuffed it in an old backpack leftover from my university days. I sat at the table with the two binders and the manila folder spread out in front of me. The folder looked least intimidating, so I opened that first.

A photograph of a baby-faced Japanese man was stapled to the inside of the cover. He had warm brown eyes and a pretty, delicate face with high cheekbones and a perfectly bow-shaped mouth.