shifter, and he might be hunting for the man who’d fathered me. Luckily, ace hacker Cyro had found Daniel first. I had a chance to warn him that Moses or his goons might be headed this way.
As far as I knew, Daniel had no idea I existed, and I had absolutely no clue how to break the news. Since the day I learned about him, I’d rehearsed it a hundred times, saying it a hundred different ways, but none of them seemed right. My alpha werewolf partner, Sean Maclin, had kissed me goodbye this morning and assured me the right words would come to me when it was time. As I stared through the front windows at my probable biological father, however, my brain was totally blank.
“For Pete’s sake, Alice, show some fortitude.” Malcolm crossed his arms and glared at me from where he floated a few feet to my right. “You heard Detroit Rock City over there—Daniel doesn’t bite and he’s got a sense of humor and he likes Pink Floyd. What else do you want?”
“A less judgmental ghost sidekick,” I muttered.
Detroit turned around. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” I ignored Malcolm’s exaggerated eye roll and took a deep breath. “Sure, I’d love to check out your store.”
“Awesome.” Detroit headed for the front door of Blue Moon Records, whistling. “Oh, hey, what’s your name?”
“Alice,” I told him. “Alice Worth.”
He opened the door and held it for me. The familiar sound of Aerosmith drifted through the doorway. I smiled.
Was it possible to inherit a love of classic rock through genetics? I certainly hadn’t gotten that from my parents, and I sure as hell didn’t get it from Moses.
Detroit made a gallant sweeping gesture. “After you, Alice.”
“Thanks, Detroit.” I let Steven Tyler’s vocals carry me inside.
The moment we walked in, Daniel sent Detroit to the post office to ship some online orders. As nice as the shop assistant was, I was relieved not to have to make conversation.
Daniel was still talking with his customers, who were regulars judging by the way they chatted. I busied myself bin-diving in the classic rock section of the shop’s used records inventory and listened to their discussion about the highlights of Black Sabbath’s lesser-known tracks. Unsurprisingly, Daniel was highly knowledgeable on the topic. Though he didn’t laugh or smile and seemed generally very solemn, he was friendly. We were the only customers in the shop at the moment—not entirely unexpected for a weekday morning.
I hadn’t necessarily planned to buy anything, but darned if they didn’t have several albums I really wanted, all in excellent condition. I made a stack and continued browsing.
Malcolm prowled around the store, “checking the perimeter,” as he called it, and reported nothing strange and no wards. He floated beside me, arms crossed again. “You’re stalling.”
“Hush,” I muttered. “He’s busy with customers.”
“They’re just yakking. I’m sure if you went up there, he’d send them on their way and talk to you.”
“What part of this seems like it would be easy?” I asked testily, still in an undertone, as I flipped through records. “I’m working up the nerve to go up there, okay? And I’ve still got six more bins to go through. They’ve got a huge inventory.”
Malcolm sighed. “I know this isn’t easy, but I think you’re getting more nervous the longer you think about it. Just go ask him about some random album and chat for a bit. Break the ice.” He glanced behind me. “Scratch that. He’s coming to you.”
I spun and locked eyes with Daniel, who was striding down the aisle toward me. The other customers were on their way out the front door, purchases in hand.
Before the plastic surgery that turned me into Alice, the disgraced—and deceased—scion of the wealthy Worth family of Chicago, I’d looked a lot like my mother, Moira, except my eyes were dark coffee brown instead of blue-gray. When I saw the photos of Daniel in the file Cyro had sent me, however, I recognized my own dark brown eyes staring back at me. I also saw some of my own face—or at least the face I used to have—in Daniel’s. In that moment, I knew with more certainty than if I’d had DNA test results in my hand that Daniel was my biological father. And days later, I stood in his record store, wondering how the hell to tell him who I was and why I was here.
He wore a plaid shirt, jeans, and boots, as if he planned to go for a hike after