Chapter 1
The vicious pounding of a heavy fist on my apartment door woke me from a bleary-eyed sleep. I groaned, rolled over, and thrust my head under the nearest pillow, begging God to make it stop. But—seeing as how God didn’t owe me any favors—the racket continued until I was compelled to plug my ears and swear, for the thousandth time, that I would never, ever, drink again.
Or, you know…drink less, at least.
I clenched my teeth, wondering why on Earth the maids had chosen to ignore the Do Not Disturb sign, before I remembered that I was in my own bed and not my Las Vegas hotel room; I’d flown in last night on the red eye after a wild weekend. The wildest weekend, in fact, I’d ever had. And—to put that in perspective—I should mention that my weekends routinely involve life-threatening danger, fucking magic, and copious amounts of booze.
But, silver lining, I’d checked a few items off my bucket list I’d never even thought to write down—like mud wrestling dragons, breaking into a Casino vault, fending off a horde of shapeshifting strippers, and dick-punching a celebrity. Fortunately, a great deal of that was fuzzy and half-remembered; I’d rarely found myself doing anything without a drink in hand, courtesy of Sin City’s legendary hospitality. Unfortunately, that meant I owed my body 48 cumulative hours’ worth of hangover…and the bitch had come to collect.
Basically, I felt like death.
If death had been run over by a trucker, thrown in the back of a tractor trailer transporting diseased animals, and left to rot in a desert until lizards lounged on his sun-bleached bones.
And someone…Wouldn’t. Stop. Knocking.
“Fine, alright! I’m fuckin’ comin’!” I screamed, my Irish brogue making me sound a lot less grumpy than I rightfully felt—a regrettable side effect of having an accent people dub “sing-songy.” To be honest, that’s probably why I cussed so much; I got tired of people treating me like a snarling puppy whenever I threw a temper tantrum.
Fun fact: no one calls you cute if you say fuck all the time.
I growled, kicked off my covers, and threw on a long robe; spring had arrived in all its glory a week ago, so I’d begun crashing in a Men’s XXL jersey. But at six-feet-tall, and most of that legs, I couldn’t afford to answer the door in my nightly attire, no matter how stylish my retro Red Sox jersey was. Not unless I wanted to give someone a show they hadn’t paid for.
I shuffled towards the door, but tripped over a small suitcase I’d stolen from my Russian friend, Othello, a world-class hacker and COO of Grimm Tech—a company in Germany that produced, amongst other things, an assortment of toys with magical properties. I cursed and lashed out, kicking it across the room, then froze.
Shit.
I ignored the knocking for a moment and doublechecked to make sure the suitcase was unharmed. Inside was a copper disc that fit in my palm. I only had a rough idea of what it did, because by the time I started quizzing her, all Othello would say was that she was the most brilliant woman alive; she’d had several dozen shots of vodka at that point. Apparently, it was what she called a “galvanizer,” whatever that meant. I don’t know why I’d taken it, except maybe to poke fun at the most brilliant woman alive for not keeping her shit locked up in a secure vault somewhere.
That’s right, just keeping her ego in check, one theft at a time.
Once I knew the case was undamaged, I shoved my hands over my ears to block out the incessant hammering and tried to decide how I would kill whoever was at my door. I had plenty of guns thanks to a special delivery from Death, yes that Death, one of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I could easily whip out a weapon and put a bullet through the door.
Or there was always the good old-fashioned Chuck Norris approach—a windpipe-crushing roundhouse to the throat.
By the time I made it to the door, I was already plotting what I’d do with the body, and what I’d tell the police if I ever got caught. I wasn’t sure my “they wouldn’t shut the fuck up and leave me alone” defense would be enough to swing the jury. Could having the worst hangover of your life count as an insanity plea? Sadly, once I glanced through the peephole, my meticulously planned murder fell apart.
Because nobody gets off scot-free after killing a cop.
I inched open the door, hiding my makeup-less face behind my bangs—a wave of vibrant red that would hopefully distract my visitor from the bags under my red-rimmed eyes. “Jimmy, now’s not a great time,” I said.
I decidedly avoided mentioning my shenanigan-fueled weekend; I wasn’t sure how many laws we’d broken, but—considering the immortal status of some of our attendees—I was willing to bet we’d end up on the far side of 25 to life.
“Get dressed, Quinn. And hurry,” Jimmy snapped, his deep baritone rumbling through the crack in my door.
“Excuse ye?” I asked, poking my head out into the hallway, too annoyed by his abrupt tone to care about how wrecked I looked. Detective Jimmy Collins, a former lover and decorated member of the Boston Police Department, loomed over me, his expression cold.
Of course, that probably shouldn’t have surprised me; I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since an incident a couple of months back in which he’d died in an alternate dimension, only to be brought back to life through the intercession of a god. Since then, he’d definitely given me the cold-shoulder, dodging my phone calls like it was his job. Until, that is, he’d tried reaching out to me last week. Sadly, I’d been a little busy recovering from a coma—the unfortunate result of fighting angels and demons in pursuit of a holy relic that I’d stashed away on a windowsill in my living room.
I know what you’re thinking…Vegas probably hadn’t been the best convalescence I could have chosen after being officially brain dead for almost a week.
Sue me.
“It’s police business,” he said, the skin around his eyes tight, his jaw clenched. I ogled the man; I couldn’t help it. Jimmy had a face and body fresh from a catalogue—broad shoulders and narrow hips, a strong jawline, and skin so smooth it seemed to emit its own light. He’d grown out his facial hair since I’d seen him last—the beard meticulously faded, offsetting his wide cheekbones.
“Listen,” I said, batting my eyes at the not-so-nice detective, “I’ll admit t’ings got a wee bit out of hand. But it was all in good fun. We didn’t even realize we were stealin’ from the mob until after it happened. And, before ye ask, we gave it all back. Even the strippers promised not to press charges, so…” I drifted off as Jimmy’s expression shifted from irritation to disapproval. “Um…what sort of police business, did ye say?” I asked, sensing he had no idea what I was talking about.
“I didn’t,” Jimmy clarified, though I could see the wheels turning in his head.
“Well, ignore all that, then. What can I do for ye?” I asked, sweetly.
“I don’t have time for this, Quinn. Get yourself dressed. I’ll wait in the hall.”
I scowled. “Aren’t ye forgettin’ somethin’?” I asked. “Like ‘hello, Quinn, nice to see ye, sorry for never callin’ ye back’?”
“That’s not why I’m here,” Jimmy said, studying the hallway as though someone might step out at any moment. “Like I said, this is police business. You’ve been…requested. I tried getting in touch with you for over a week, but you never called me back, so now I’m here to collect you in person.”
“Is that why you’re actin’ like an arse right now?” I asked. “Because I didn’t call ye back right away? I was out of town and me phone broke. I planned to call ye back soon.”
“Before or after you stole from the mob? And…” Jimmy leaned in, sniffed, and recoiled. “Drank your weight in Clontarf?”
I glared at him, then surreptitiously sniffed myself, wondering how Jimmy had picked up on the exact brand of whiskey I’d been drinking all weekend long. I certainly couldn’t smell anything, although I wouldn’t have expected to; I’d showered and brushed my teeth before going to bed just a few short hours ago. I scowled, trying my best not to think about the fact that he smelt pretty good by comparison, his cologne clean and sweet, like honeysuckle, although there was something else there—the faintest aroma of stale smoke. “I’m a grown woman, Jimmy Collins. If I want to get into trouble and drink with me friends, then that’s what I’ll do.”
Jimmy rolled his eyes. “I don’t care what you do or don’t do, Quinn. If I had it my way, I wouldn’t even be here. But right now, my orders are to take you to a crime scene. So, let’s dispense with the pleasantries and move it along.”
I ran my tongue across my teeth, trying to contain the mixed emotions I felt welling up inside: anger, frustration, disappointment. “Alright, then,” I said, finally. “Ye stay the fuck outside. I’ll be out in a minute.” I slammed the door in his face, seething and—if I was being honest with myself—more than a little heartbroken. It wasn’t like I had crazy high expectations or anything. I mean the man had gone out of his way to avoid me.
But I’d never dreamed our reunion would play out this poorly.
“Did you know that, in America, a divorce occurs every 36 seconds?” a voice, slight and feminine, rang out from my living room.
I sighed.
“No, Eve, I didn’t know that,” I replied. “But I’m not surprised.”
Eve, my spoil of war and budding Tree of Knowledge, liked to impress me with her freakish knowledge of statistics—although I was beginning to suspect that her knowledge bombs came at a price; she often spouted out whatever information she thought was most applicable at the time, regardless of the social consequences.
“Did you know individuals between the ages of 18 and 29 generally have sex 112 times a year? That equals a little more than twice a week. What happens if you go longer than the average span, do you think? Are you feeling ill? Anxious, maybe?”
I turned on the shower and fetched a towel from my room, ignoring the pernicious houseplant.
“Did you know—”
“Did ye know that baby trees make the best firewood?” I fired back, before she could finish.
Eve was silent, and, for a moment, I thought my not-so-veiled threat might have finally shut her up. I stepped into the shower.
“I don’t think your source is credible!” she called out.
I groaned.
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