Page 2 of Fang Fatale

They're romantics.

CHAPTER 1

ALARIC

Ican always tell when I'm about to get stiffed.

Maybe it's the way the mark holds his mouth—tight, as though the truth wants out but his jaw's got it on lockdown. Or maybe it's the shoes. Guys in cheap shoes always try to haggle. Guys wearing calfskin with a spit-shine you could check your hair in don't bother pretending it's a negotiation. They throw around "money is no object" like confetti at a mobster's christening and expect respect to stick to them like wet toilet paper.

My job is to play along.

Leland Brooks is wearing the kind of suit that makes a man either a senator or an undertaker, and I'd bet my last bottle of Vlaska he's both.

He sits across from me in a Thistlebrook coffeehouse that spent a million bucks trying to look like it was falling apart. Exposed beams. Edison bulbs. High ceilings that make even the pre-teens at the next table feel important.

Leland folds his hands like he's waiting for a verdict.

I glance around the room while early evening pours copper through the bay windows. Three other customers occupy the café. Two are together—one pretty girl and her friend wearing a Daria T-shirt. Or maybe that's just her face. The third sits in the corner with a laptop bright enough to tan everyone facing him. He's not watching our table, which probably means he's with Leland.

The barista, a grad student with a watercolor squid tattoo curling around her bicep, catches my eye and winks.

"So," Leland says, "you're the one they call the Bloodhound."

He means it as a compliment.

It lands like an accusation.

I smile anyway. I pay good money for my canines.

"You got a missing pet, Mr. Brooks?"

His grin is polished enough to belong in a trophy case.

"My fiancée."

A beat.

"Birdie Longfellow."

Another beat.

"Birdie disappeared six days ago. Morning of our wedding."

The scent of cinnamon, steamed milk, and expensive aftershave mingles between us. I swirl the espresso in my demitasse, watching the crema cling to the porcelain.

"Six days is an odd window to hire a private investigator."

He snorts.

"You specialize in odd windows, Mr. Grimhaven."

Fair.

Blackthorn Bay may be home, but Thistlebrook pays the bills. Humans always think monsters are the problem until they need one to solve theirs.

Out here there's cargo to move, scandals to bury, spouses to trail, and enough secrets to keep me comfortably employed until the sun burns out.

Thistlebrook tastes like brine and regret.