Wanted: Undead or Alive

Well, That's Not Normal

Moose had insisted on driving, which left me free to twist this way and that in my seat, gawking at the opulence as we wound our way through a part of town I normally had zero reason to visit. "I didn't even know places this fancy existed in Michigan."

He drove on without comment. In my experience, he was rarely much of a conversationalist.

We turned into the long, paved drive of a property that bordered a small lake. It reminded me of Nick's family estate in Europe. This place was newer and somehow gaudier, though I didn't have enough experience with money to say exactly why that was. Maybe the trees were too young or the lawn too manicured. Maybe it was because the features on the impressive garden statues were still crisp and fresh, not softly weathered by the passing of centuries. A fountain similar to the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park adorned the center of a paved circle directly in front of a wide porch with towering pillars and sparkling marble stairs.

"It's not too shabby," I said.

"Pillars are ostentatious."

I glanced over at Moose, making no attempt to hide my surprise at this strongly stated opinion.

He peered up over the steering wheel at the house. "People who have to try this hard to show that they're rich are either faking it or in danger of losing it."

It wasn't often in the past six months that Moose and I operated on the same wavelength, but here we were, for the third time in one day, with our trains running on the same track. Hopefully, that wasn't an omen of the impending apocalypse or anything.

We stepped out of the car into the soft chill of the early spring evening and gathered up our packs full of equipment. My bag must have weighed thirty pounds. Mx. Landry had seen to it that we were in full gear, "just in case." Our boots thumped against the smooth concrete. The various weapons, restraints, and communication devices on our utility belts jangled and clinked when we walked. Good thing I'd been working out or I might not have been able to manage the added load.

On my left arm, a tattooed crucifix peeked out from under the sleeve of my black tee shirt. On my right arm, I had a complicated pattern of circles that Nick called sacred geometry. These were the equivalent of a bullet-proof vest in our line of work—protecting us from some of the worst possible injuries, but far from foolproof. Probably nothing could possess me, or mind control me, or suck my spirit from my body while I had those symbols on my skin. Most likely, no vampires could drink my blood and no werewolves could change me. There were no guarantees the warding would always work and, as much as it skeeved me out to think about it, tattoos could be ripped off. I'd learned that gruesome fact in my very first encounter with the supernatural, back when I was a hotel clerk. Still, better to have them than not.

My hotel clerk days felt like a different lifetime. Since then, life had taken a decidedly weird turn. Even weirder, I sort of loved it. When I woke up each day, a little thrill of adventure fluttered through my belly. And jogging up those steps with vials of holy water and clips full of silver bullets strapped to my waist definitely made me feel like a badass.

Before we reached the door, it swung open and a small man with lovely, soft features and the most perfectly tidy hair I'd ever seen emerged. He wore a black tux and white gloves and an odor of sulfur wafted off of him.

"May I help you?" His soft British tones made my stomach roll.

"You're a demon." Freaking demons made me nauseous every time, though I'd managed to build up enough tolerance that I no longer lost my lunch whenever I encountered one.

He lifted his chin a fraction. "You're a filthy flesh sack. How may I help you?"

"We were sent by The Organization to investigate the incident," Moose said.