Page 24

JUNIPER

Stakeouts are significantly less exciting than books pretend. Nobody ever writes about sore backs, or cold benches, or the overwhelming urge to fall asleep. I shift against the wooden crate for what feels like the hundredth time and glance toward Brock.

He hasn't moved. Not once, not even slightly. The man could pass for a statue — a very large, extremely grumpy statue.

My eyes narrow. Actually, that explains a lot.

"Do you ever smile?"

Brock doesn't look away from the delivery yard. "Yes."

The answer surprises me, mostly because I assumed the correct answer was no. "When?"

"When something is funny."

. "That narrows it down considerably."

Silence. Not an answer, not a denial. Just Brock being Brock. I suppress a smile.

The evening air drifts through the alley. Stacks of delivery crates sit near the loading dock, and the transport company building looms across the street. This entire operation was Brock's idea — after discovering inconsistencies in the delivery records, he wanted to observe the site personally, which apparently meant hiding in an alley for hours without snacks. The injustice remains unforgivable.

I glance at him again. Still nothing. No movement, no expression, no sign of life.

"In another year or two," I say thoughtfully, "you might fully evolve into a grizzly."

That finally earns a reaction — a small one. His eyes close briefly. Victory.

"What does that even mean?"

I grin. "Large. Hairy. Intimidating." I pause. "And occasionally growly."

That earns a look. A real one, the kind capable of silencing most people. Unfortunately for Brock, I am not most people.

"You see?" I beam. "That was a grizzly look."

"It wasn't."

"It absolutely was."

He shakes his head and returns his attention to the yard. The conversation ends — at least for him. For me, it's a complete victory. I settle more comfortably against the crate and let the quiet return.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer. The loading yard stays empty, the street stays quiet, and my eyelids grow heavier as the day catches up with me. The alley grows softer around the edges, just for a moment —

Movement catches my eye. I straighten immediately, exhaustion gone. Someone slips between the delivery trucks, and my pulse jumps.

"Brock."

His attention sharpens instantly. "What?"

I point. "There."

The figure moves quickly — dark clothing, covered face, purposeful movements. Not a customer, not a worker. The stranger heads directly toward a delivery crate, kneels, and draws a hand across its side. Magic flickers briefly, subtle enough to be almost invisible, and the sight sends a chill straight down my spine.

Brock sees it too. Every muscle in his body tightens. "Stay here."

Then he moves — fast, far faster than I expected. One second he's beside me, the next he's crossing the street. The stranger notices. Everything explodes into motion.

The figure bolts. Brock takes off after them, and my heart leaps into my throat. I know exactly what I'm supposed to do — stay put, remain hidden, avoid becoming a problem.