“You should go in. The owner doesn’t bite.”
Startled, I turned. The speaker was a lanky college kid with long blond hair, wearing a Love and Rockets T-shirt and ripped jeans, sitting at the other end of the bench.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
He gestured with his half-eaten sandwich at the record store across the little outdoor pavilion from where we sat. “I’m just saying, go in and check it out. You’ve been staring at the place for like twenty minutes. Daniel doesn’t bite.”
“Thanks. Maybe I will.” I crossed my arms and resumed watching the store.
My body language was lost on him. “We’re the last real record store anywhere around,” he said with obvious pride. “New and used, all genres. We’ll order anything you want if we don’t have it.”
I didn’t reply. My attention was on the figure of a tall, well-muscled older man inside the store. In the past half hour, he’d helped customers, sorted through bins of new inventory, and cleaned the glass door. At the moment, he was ringing up a couple of guys and talking with them, maybe about their purchases. I hadn’t seen him smile…or sit down for one moment. Shifters tended to have a lot of energy, but he seemed more restless than most.
Mr. Love and Rockets was talking again. “What are you into? I bet classic rock.” He finished off the last of his sandwich in one big bite and gulped water from a reusable bottle.
He seemed friendly, I supposed, and might be a good source of information about his boss. “I am, actually,” I said, turning toward him. “How could you tell?”
He grinned. “I’ve been working in this store since I was sixteen. I get a vibe about people, you know? And I’m almost always right. So, who are your favorites?”
“Pink Floyd, The Eagles, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, The Who, Queen, Fleetwood Mac.”
“On vinyl?”
I feigned confusion. “Are there any other options?”
“Rock on. I’m Detroit.” At my expression, he laughed. “It’s really Henry, but Daniel’s been calling me Detroit since forever.”
“Are you from there?”
He shook his head. “Nah, I’m from here. I’m super into KISS, though, so I guess that’s where it came from. Daniel claims he doesn’t remember how he thought of it—just says Henry doesn’t suit me.”
I couldn’t imagine a world in which this guy was named “Henry” either. “Daniel sounds interesting. He owns the store?”
Detroit nodded. “He’s been running it for something like twenty years. It’s his life.”
That’s what the file I’d received from my hacker contact Cyro had reported. Daniel had a simple life: the record store, a house on the outskirts of town, and a truck. No wife, no kids, no living family.
Except me.
“Daniel loves classic rock too,” Detroit said, folding his insulated lunch bag. “He’d probably enjoy talking with you. Pink Floyd is his favorite band of all time. If you think Dark Side of the Moon is one of the best things ever made by a human, you and he will get along just fine.”
My throat went dry. “The first vinyl album I ever bought was Dark Side of the Moon.”
“Then come inside and see what we’ve got. Bet we have albums you need. I’ll even slide you a first-time customer discount.” He stood and stretched. “You from around here?”
I shook my head. “A couple hours away.”
“What brings you to town?”
I had an answer prepared for that question. “I planned to go on the ghost tour tonight.”
“Mary Ann’s tour? You’ll like her. She knows all the local lore—and what she doesn’t know, she makes up.” He winked. “Coming in? I’ll introduce you to Daniel.”
I rose, but I made no move to follow him toward the store. I’d faced demons, ghosts, vampires, sorcerers, witches, poltergeists, angry werewolves, blood mages, panther shifters, an angel, a demon lord, and Vlad the Impaler, but the prospect of being introduced to Daniel Holiday made me want to run.
Running was not an option, however, because someone else might be coming after Daniel: my grandfather, crime lord Moses Murphy. For some reason he wanted Daniel dead for knocking up my mom with a half-mage, half-shifter baby. Why that would make Moses want to kill Daniel, I wasn’t sure. I’d recently unearthed a forgotten memory from my childhood that indicated Moses would have killed all three of us back then if he’d known my real father wasn’t John Briggs, the man who’d raised me as his own daughter.
Both my mom and my dad were long dead, murdered by Moses when I was eight. Now Moses knew I was part shifter, and he might be hunting for the man who’d fathered me. Luckily, ace hacker Cyro had found Daniel first. I had a chance to warn him that Moses or his goons might be headed this way.
As far as I knew, Daniel had no idea I existed, and I had absolutely no clue how to break the news. Since the day I learned about him, I’d rehearsed it a hundred times, saying it a hundred different ways, but none of them seemed right. My alpha werewolf partner, Sean Maclin, had kissed me goodbye this morning and assured me the right words would come to me when it was time. As I stared through the front windows at my probable biological father, however, my brain was totally blank.
“For Pete’s sake, Alice, show some fortitude.” Malcolm crossed his arms and glared at me from where he floated a few feet to my right. “You heard Detroit Rock City over there—Daniel doesn’t bite and he’s got a sense of humor and he likes Pink Floyd. What else do you want?”
“A less judgmental ghost sidekick,” I muttered.
Detroit turned around. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” I ignored Malcolm’s exaggerated eye roll and took a deep breath. “Sure, I’d love to check out your store.”
“Awesome.” Detroit headed for the front door of Blue Moon Records, whistling. “Oh, hey, what’s your name?”
“Alice,” I told him. “Alice Worth.”
He opened the door and held it for me. The familiar sound of Aerosmith drifted through the doorway. I smiled.
Was it possible to inherit a love of classic rock through genetics? I certainly hadn’t gotten that from my parents, and I sure as hell didn’t get it from Moses.
Detroit made a gallant sweeping gesture. “After you, Alice.”
“Thanks, Detroit.” I let Steven Tyler’s vocals carry me inside.
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