Every Which Way But Dead. Ким Харрисон

sighed. My desk. My beautiful solid-oak desk with nooks and crannies and a secret cubby at the bottom of the left-hand drawer. My desk that I had used for only three weeks before Jenks and his brood moved into it. My desk, which was now so thickly covered in potted plants that it looked like a prop for a horror movie about killer plants taking over the world. But it was either that or have them set up housekeeping in the kitchen cupboards. No. Not my kitchen. Having them stage daily mock battles among the hanging pots and utensils was bad enough.

      Distracted, I tugged my coat closer and squinted at the bright light reflecting off the snow as the sliding doors opened. “Whoa, wait up!” Jenks shrilled in my ear when the blast of cold air hit us. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, witch? Do I look like I’m made of fur?”

      “Sorry.” I made a quick left turn to get out of the draft and opened my shoulder bag for him. Still swearing, he dropped down to hide inside. He hated it, but there was no alternative. A sustained temp lower than forty-five degrees would throw him into a hibernation that would be unsafe to break until spring, but he should be all right in my bag.

      A Were dressed in a thick wool coat that went to his boot tops edged from me with an uncomfortable look. When I tried to make eye contact, he pulled his cowboy hat down and turned away. A frown crossed me; I hadn’t had a Were client since I made the Howlers pay me for trying to get their mascot back. Maybe I’d made a mistake there.

      “Hey, give me those M&M’s, okay?” Jenks grumbled up at me, his short blond hair framing delicate features reddened by the cold. “I’m starving here.”

      I obediently shuffled through the bags and dropped the candy in to him before pulling the ties to my shoulder bag shut. I didn’t like bringing him out like this, but I was his partner, not his mom. He enjoyed being the only adult male pixy in Cincinnati not in a stupor. In his eyes, the entire city was probably his garden, as cold and snowy as it was.

      I took a moment to dig my zebra-striped car key out from the front pocket. The couple that had been behind me in line passed me on their way out, flirting comfortably and looking like sex in leather. He had bought her a Bite-me-Betty doll, too, and they were laughing. My thoughts went to Nick again, and a warm stir of anticipation took me.

      Putting my shades on against the glare, I went out to the sidewalk, keys jingling and bag held tight to me. Even making the trip in my bag, Jenks was going to get cold. I told myself I should make cookies so he could bask in the heat of the cooling oven. It had been ages since I’d made solstice cookies. I was sure I had seen some flour-smeared cookie cutters in a nasty zippy bag at the back of a cupboard somewhere. All I needed was the colored sugar to do it right.

      My mood brightened at the sight of my car ankle-deep in crusty slush at the curb. Yeah, it was as expensive as a vampire princess to maintain, but it was mine and I looked really good sitting behind the wheel with the top down and the wind pulling my long hair back… . Not springing for the garage hadn’t been an option.

      It chirped happily at me as I unlocked it and dropped my bags in the unusable backseat. I folded myself into the front, setting Jenks carefully on my lap, where he might stay a little warmer. The heat went on full-bore as soon as I got the engine started. I tunked it into gear and was ready to pull out when a long white car slid up alongside in a slow hush of sound.

      Affronted, I glared as it double-parked to block me in. “Hey!” I exclaimed when the driver got out in the middle of the freaking road to open the door for his employer. Ticked, I jammed it into neutral, got out of my car and jerked my bag farther up my shoulder. “Hey! I’m trying to leave here!” I shouted, wanting to bang on the roof of the car.

      But my protests choked to nothing when the side door opened and an older man wearing scads of gold necklaces stuck his head out. His frizzed blond hair went out in all directions. Blue eyes glinting in suppressed excitement, he beckoned to me. “Ms. Morgan,” he exclaimed softly. “Can I talk to you?”

      I took my sunglasses off, staring. “Takata?” I stammered.

      The older rocker winced, his face sliding into faint wrinkles as he glanced over the few pedestrians. They had noticed the limo, and with my outburst, the jig, as they say, was up. Eyes pinched in exasperation, Takata stretched out a long skinny hand, jerking me off my feet and into the limo. I gasped, holding my bag so I didn’t squish Jenks as I fell into the plush seat across from him. “Go!” the musician cried, and the driver shut the door and jogged to the front.

      “My car!” I protested. My door was open and my keys were in the ignition.

      “Anon?” Takata said, gesturing to a man in a black T-shirt tucked into a corner of the expansive vehicle. He slipped past me in a tang of blood that pegged him as a vamp. There was a flush of cold air as he got out, quickly thumping the door shut behind him. I watched through the tinted window as he slipped into my leather seats to look predatory with his shaved head and dark shades. I only hoped I looked half that good. The muffled sound of my engine revved twice, then we jerked into motion as the first of the groupies started patting the windows.

      Heart pounding, I spun to look out the back window while we pulled away. My car was edging carefully past the people standing in the road shouting at us to come back. It worked its way into the clear, quickly catching up and running a red light to stay with us.

      Stunned at how fast it had been, I turned.

      The aging pop star was wearing outlandish orange slacks. He had a matching vest over a soothing earth-toned shirt. Everything was silk, which I thought was his only saving grace. God help him, even his shoes were orange. And socks. I winced. It kind of went with the gold chains and blond hair, which had been teased out until it was so big it could frighten small children. His complexion was whiter than mine, and I dearly wanted to pull out the wood-framed glasses that I had spelled to see through earth charms to know if he had hidden freckles.

      “Uh, hi?” I stammered, and the man grinned, showing his impulsive, wickedly intelligent demeanor, and his tendency to find the fun in everything even if the world was falling apart around him. Actually, the innovated artist had done just that, his garage band making the jump to stardom during the Turn, capitalizing on the opportunity to be the first openly Inderland band. He was a Cincy hometown boy who had made good, and he returned the favor by donating the proceeds of his winter solstice concerts to the city’s charities. It was particularly important this year, as a series of arson fires had decimated many of the homeless shelters and orphanages.

      “Ms. Morgan,” the man said, touching the side of his big nose. His attention went over my shoulder and out the back window. “Hope I didn’t startle you.”

      His voice was deep and carefully schooled. Beautiful. I was a sucker for beautiful voices. “Um, no.” Setting my shades aside, I unwound my scarf. “How are you doing? Your hair looks … great.”

      He laughed, easing my nervousness. We had met five years ago and had coffee over a conversation centering on the trials of curly hair. That he not only remembered me but also wanted to talk was flattering. “It looks like hell,” he said, touching the long frizz that had been in dreadlocks when we last met. “But my p.r. woman says it ups my sales by two percent.” He stretched his long legs out to take up almost the entirety of one side of the limo.

      I smiled. “You need another charm to tame it?” I said, reaching for my bag.

      My breath caught in alarm. “Jenks!” I exclaimed, jerking the bag open.

      Jenks came boiling out. “About time you remembered me!” he snarled. “What the Turn is going on? I nearly snapped my wing falling onto your phone. You got M&M’s all over your purse, and I’ll be dammed before I pick them up. Where in Tink’s garden are we?”

      I smiled weakly at Takata. “Ah, Takata,” I started, “this is—”

      Jenks caught sight of him. A burst of pixy dust exploded, lighting the car for an instant and making me jump. “Holy crap!” the pixy exclaimed. “You’re Takata! I thought Rachel was pissing on my daisies about knowing you. Sweet mother of Tink! Wait until I tell Matalina! It’s really you. Damn,