* * *
Astrid Mathieson
My gun is pressed against his chest before my brain fully processes what's happening. One moment I'm scanning the warehouse entrance, the next a massive blond Viking man is sitting in my passenger seat with a picnic basket between us like this is some kind of twisted Little Red Riding Hood scenario.
"What. The. Actual. Fuck." Each word comes out like a bullet, precise and lethal. My finger hovers over the trigger, close enough that any sane person would be having a panic attack.
Fen just smiles, completely unperturbed by the deadly weapon aimed at his heart.
"I don't want breakfast for dinner," I snarl, though my traitorous stomach chooses that exact moment to growl loudly. "I want you to explain why I shouldn't put a bullet in you right now."
He tilts his head slightly, golden eyes studying me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. "Your scent," he says simply. "You like me and also," his smile widens, "because you dislike paperwork."
My scent? What is he smelling?
And then the worst part is that he's right about the paperwork. I'd have to explain why I shot an unarmed civilian who brought me dinner.
"Get out," I order. "Now."
"The hellhounds are watching us," he says calmly, nodding toward the warehouse entrance.
I risk a quick glance and tense immediately. Three massive canine shapes, more shadow than substance, red eyes fixed on our vehicle. One of them appears to be sniffing the air, head raised in our direction, jaws slightly parted to reveal giant black teeth that shine like obsidian.
"They look different up close," I mutter, eyes narrowing as I track their movements. "Those black teeth weren't visible from the rooftop yesterday."
"Yes, the teeth are unsettling, but they're just curious," Fen continues, as if discussing the weather rather than supernatural mythical beasts. "Don’t be concerned. We're not on their list."
"Their list?"
"Souls marked for collection," he explains, opening the basket and releasing a mouthwatering aroma of fresh baked goods and coffee into the car. "Hades only sends them for the worst of the worst. The truly damned."
I lower my gun slightly, my professional curiosity momentarily overriding my anger. "You're saying someone in that warehouse has been marked by Hades. The god of the dead?"
"Correct." He pulls out a thermos and what looks like a still-warm croissant. "Coffee? The brownies insisted on adding cinnamon. They said you'd like it."
"The brownies made me coffee?"
"And pastries." He holds one out like it's a peace offering. "They're very invested in your happiness."
"The same brownies I was sent to capture the other day." I still haven't taken the coffee or pastry, though the smell is making my mouth water. I've been here since early afternoon with nothing but a protein bar.
"The very same." His golden eyes crinkle at the corners. "They like you. Said you have a good aura, despite your... professional obligations. Also, they like me."
I stare at him over the barrel of my gun, weighing my options. On one hand, he's an unauthorized supernatural entity who keeps interfering with my cases. On the other, he's just handed me information about hellhounds that GUIDE likely doesn’t have.
My gaze flicks back to the warehouse entrance. Those creatures are the bigger threat right now, not the irritatingly calm Viking offering me pastries.
I exhale slowly, professional pragmatism winning out over protocol. Having an informant who understands these creatures could be the difference between solving this case and another dead end. Even if said informant makes my skin buzz in ways that lead my brain down very unprofessional paths.
I finally holster my weapon, though my shoulders remain tense. "You can't be here. I'm on an official stakeout."
"Then consider me unofficial backup," he suggests, still holding out the pastry. "The hellhounds are only the beginning, Astrid. Whatever's happening in that warehouse isn't something you should face alone."
"I'm not alone. I have—" I stop myself before saying I have backup, because I don't. Hayes made it clear this was surveillance only, and I'm on my own unless I find something concrete.
"You have me," Fen finishes for me, his voice gentler than I'd expect from someone his size. "Whether you want me or not."
I grab the pastry from his hand, needing to do something before I do something stupid like touch him. The first bite is frustratingly good—buttery and flaky with just the right amount of sweetness. "Fine. But you keep quiet. This is my operation."
