I looked from one to the other, the scowling werewolf, the smirking half-fae, the enthusiastic necromancer with his dancing skeletons, and the uptight elven bureaucrat, who probably sat on sticks, looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"So I get a full chaos buffet of supernatural weirdos. Cool. Normal. Perfect." I slumped in my chair. "What exactly are they protecting me from?"
"Not protecting you," Fenric corrected, still typing furiously. "Protecting reality from you."
"The prophecy's energy is unstable," Agent Nightstar explained. "Until we understand its full meaning and purpose, you're essentially a walking magical bomb. These four have been selected for their complementary abilities." She paused at that last sentence.
Rook snorted. "Just keep your weird glowing hand away from me, and we'll get along fine."
"I think this is going to be amazing!" Milo exclaimed. His skeletons broke into another dance routine, this one involving moonwalking.
Zane stretched languidly. "For the record, I had plans this weekend. Important plans involving hot yoga and a bottle of expensive whiskey with a sexy succubus."
Fenric's eye twitched. "Section 12.3 of the Protector's Manual strictly prohibits alcohol consumption while on active duty."
"And there it is," Zane sighed dramatically.
I raised my hand, the non-glowing one. "Don't I get a say in any of this?"
All five supernatural beings turned to look at me with expressions ranging from amusement to pity.
"No," they all answered in unison.
Well.
Fuck you, too.
Chapter
Three
Winter
The PEB-assigned apartment was surprisingly nice. If your definition of "nice" included magical surveillance orbs floating in every corner and windows that refused to open more than three inches. A prison with tasteful mid-century modern furniture was still a prison. There was no privacy.
"This will be your temporary residence until the prophecy situation is resolved," Agent Nightstar explained, handing me a key card. "The building is warded against unauthorized magical entities and reality fluctuations."
I eyed the glowing palm-print scanner by the door. "So I'm under house arrest?"
"Think of it as protective custody," she smoothed a wrinkle on her pants. "Your Fate Protectors will rotate eight-hour shifts to monitor your condition."
"Lucky me," I muttered, dropping my hastily packed overnight bag onto the couch. The PEB had allowed me a brief stop at my apartment to gather essentials, including my fish,supervised by Fenric, who'd documented every item I packed as if I might smuggle in contraband saltine crackers.
Agent Nightstar checked her watch. "I have another Class 3 situation involving a prophetic parrot in Queens. Your first protector will arrive momentarily."
As if summoned by her words, Fenric materialized through the doorway, tablet in hand, not a silver-blond hair out of place. Agent Nightstar nodded to him and disappeared down the hallway.
Great. My first babysitter was Mr. Bureaucracy himself.
"Ms. Winter," Fenric greeted me with a curt nod. "I trust you find your accommodations satisfactory?"
"Peachy," I flopped onto the couch. "Nothing says 'home sweet home' like being monitored by floating eyeballs."
"Arcane Surveillance Orbs," he corrected, tapping something into his tablet. "Standard procedure for all Class 1 prophecy hosts."
I waved my glowing hand at one of the orbs, which blinked nervously and retreated to a higher corner. "Do they have to stare so much? It's creepy."
"They're not staring. They're monitoring." Fenric straightened his already perfectly straight tie. "Now, regarding your daily structure."
