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We walked through the fancy house—although house was the wrong word. Palace was more appropriate. Sprawling walkways led to different sections, with much of the house being wide open to the elements. Maybe it didn’t rain all that much here?

Finally we headed to a lit-up pool area, where a skinny troll floated in an inflated unicorn ring.

“Mr. Skrinde, the San Francisco so-called heroes have arrived.”

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting a drug-lord troll to look like, but this guy wasn’t it.

“Right, hold up . . .” He shoved his hands into the water on either side of the unicorn inflatable and began to paddle his way back toward the edge. Only, he wasn’t all that heavy, and a breeze must have caught the unicorn, twisting him around to face the wrong way. He paddled furiously to correct his course, and ended up paddling in a circle.

I wasn’t sure where to look. He was clearly struggling.

Secondhand embarrassment crawled over me.

“Is anyone goin’ to help him out?” Zee asked.

Shotgun Troll shot Zee a dead-eyed warning glare, and his finger twitched on the shotgun’s trigger.

Okay then. We were all just supposed to wait while the drug-lord troll paddled in circles in his blow-up unicorn in his giant pool in his oversized Miami mansion?

“It’s okay! I got this.” He paddled around, lined himself back up with us, and splashed over, using unsettling hip-jerking motions to gain momentum in the water.

Was this the right Mr. Skrinde? The same Mr. Skrinde who had businesses like Kat’s running scared? The same Mr. Skrinde who had the frog shifters fighting for their land and their lives?

Victor scratched at his cheek, but remained stoic-faced. He’d had a lot of practice.

Zee’s eyes were wide, and blinking. “This is fuckin’ painful . . . I can just hop in there and drag him—” Shotgun Troll pointed his shotgun at Zee, and Zee raised his hands. “Yup, okay, not gonna do that.”

“Here we are! Hoo-wee!” Mr. Skrinde tipped himself out of the unicorn and padded up the steps, out of the pool. His tight black swim shorts left little to the imagination. Turns out Zee was wrong about trolls being proportionate . . . Or Mr. Skrinde had a cucumber stashed down there.

“That’s some banana hammock,” Zee said, lips pinching back a laugh.

Victor snorted, and covered the sound with a well-timed polite cough.

I couldn’t look away. Why couldn’t I look away?

Mr. Skrinde tucked his thumbs down those tight trunks, and flicked them from his waist, adjusting what did not need to be adjusted.

“I mean, I’ve seen some nut-huggers, but those are eye-watering,” Zee commented.

“Perhaps a size too small?” Victor suggested, straight-faced.

“You think he sings soprano?”

“I dare say, the Minigun at the gate is perhaps rather accurate.”

What was happening? Were Zee and Victor riffing?

Cocking a hip, Zee folded his arms. “I’d pay good money to see you in a peen pouch like that, Spicy Fangs.”

“No payment required, demon. Just so long as you admire the package from your knees.”

Zee choked out a dirty, startled chuckle. “Fuck me.”

“Gladly,” Victor purred under his breath.

Mercy. This was . . . peculiar, even for me. I’d been doing just fine until I imagined Victor rising from that pool wearing just a tiny pair of shorts. Oh my stars . . . I tugged at my shirt collar, then flicked a few buttons open. Miami nights were hot, huh?

Finally, one of the house staff hurried out and offered a fluffy black gown to Skrinde. He shrugged it on and belted it tight. “Now then, let’s take a seat over here and talk business, shall we? Sit, sit . . . You want some blow?”