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We pause at an intersection, and I breathe in the loamy air, closing my eyes. Soon, the citizens and patrons will realize the rain has stopped, and they’ll pour back out of hiding, signaling for us to return to work.
Which makes this moment of peace all the sweeter.
“Now’s not the time for meditation, Cay.” Johannsson’s grumbles ruin my mood. “You can do that after we clock out.”
My eyes slit open, my patience wearing thin. “How did I get stuck on this beat with you today, Paul?”
“Hey, I’m no happier than you.” He adjusts his belt, where the skull badge of the Bone Guard hangs in plain view to warn those we pass not to mess with us. “Take it up with Sharpe. Him taking a day off ruined our usual team dynamic.”
It’s true. When they’re on shift together, Sharpe pairs up with Mayn, his old partner from when he led the JTFPI. He took the siren on when no one else would risk hiring her, and when he left the paranormal police unit, she followed.
With Sharpe off the roster, Mayn and Webb partnered up.
Sharpe recruited Webb right before everything crumbled, and she and Mayn bonded over their passion for swords. Mayn learned to wield the long blade back when they were an every day part of life, while Webb took classes at the local university. The two women love to debate form.
Since Tory and O’Hara are locked at the hip, I drew the short straw and paired up with Johannsson for the day. The lieutenant and I have a rocky relationship at best, though it often spirals into antagonism.
Thankfully, the day is almost over.
Johannsson pulls a square cloth from his pocket and wipes his glistening brow. “I can’t wait for summer to end. At least at the JTFPI, we had squad cars with air conditioners.”
“You can still sign up for Trent’s school.” I ignore the sweat trickling between my breasts. “The warehouse is nice and cool year-round.”
The JTFPI officers who passed on the offer to join the Bone Guard had contracted with Trent to learn how to become soldiers for hire. With him and his wife getting older, they decided to take things easier and train younger people, whose bodies were not already broken, to fill their positions.
“Nope.” Johannsson tucks his soggy handkerchief back into his pocket. “Still hate mercenaries. They obstruct too much real police work.”
Which is the crux of all the issues between me and Johannsson. Until a month ago, I ran my company out of the back of a psychic shop and took on any job of the paranormal variety that paid enough. It meant being employed by the JTFPI when they hired us for support and going against them when the need arose.
But then I got in too deep with helping Sharpe and turned away too many questionable jobs. The business declined as people lost faith in our ability to separate working with the law and breaking it.
The final nail in the coffin came when the building we rented sold our office space, and we received a notice to refile our private investigator’s license, which came back denied.
Interim-Mayor Bailey had finally gotten his wish and taken down the JTFPI and the Cleaners, which is fine. We have the Bone Guard now, and people can still find me at the Harbor if they need something handled.
I run a thumb over my badge, wiping off the condensation gathering on it. I don’t regret giving up my business. In my many lives, I’ve worn various hats, and I enjoy being a law person right now, even if it means working for a demon council in a tiny town carved out of the human world.
Ahead of us, waxy leaves hang over the sidewalk, and my steps slow as I catch sight of a bulbous red frog squatted at the base of one, his head tipped toward the branches above.
Johannsson stops next to me and lets out a low groan. “Can’t we just ignore it? Our shift is almost over?”
I unclip a baton from my belt. “No can do, Paul. We have laws to enforce.”
He pulls a compact device from his pocket that will expand into an electric web when thrown. “I hate dealing with Yara-Ma-Yha-Who demons.”
“Me, too.” Not after one got its suckers on me and drained away my blood. “Stay out of reach and keep the disc ready.”
As we approach the demon frog, I scan the tree branches for any more of his kind lurking overhead, waiting for a tasty meal to pass beneath.
Johannsson stops six feet back. “Hey, Lethoba, how’s your day going?”
Bulbous, black eyes roll toward us, and he croaks around his mouthful, “Good. You?”
“It’s been a long, hot day.” My hand tightens on the baton I hold, though I keep it collapsed for now. “How about you spit that out so we can end our day on a high note?”
“Contract.” Lethoba extends a hand, revealing a piece of paper stuck to one sucker. “Consent.”
With a wary eye on his other limbs, I step forward far enough to pinch one soggy corner between my fingers and pull back.
