desert scrub onto a lost side street, where streetlamps pocked the deserted sky like unwilling sentries, half of those busted. Pausing beneath the faux awning of a closed pawnshop, he glanced around once more, celestial vision pulsing, looking for heat, making sure he was alone.
Once satisfied, he lifted the fedora from his head, studied it, and flipped on the switch hidden in the lining of the brim. A light flashed. Nestling the hat back atop his head, he decided Kit’s gift was kitschy, insulting, and damned annoying.
Question was, did it work?
Taking a step forward caused the brim to emit a short, shrill beep. A series of increasingly urgent trills allowed Grif to ascertain that that pawn shop’s front faced south. He swiveled that way, and was trying to figure out how to adjust the volume, when a voice popped up behind him.
“Bro, why is your hat beeping?”
Jolting, Grif jerked the hat from his head as he turned. It began beeping madly in response and he fumbled for the off switch. Glancing back up, he mumbled, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Across from him was a kid with scrawny semitransparent shoulders and jagged wings glistening with dew from the Everlast, feathery tips trailing off into smoky wisps. They were ruffled, but still magnificent. Good thing, too, Grif thought, eyeing the Centurion. It kept the focus off the kid’s parachute pants and Members Only jacket. Not for the first time did Grif give thanks that he hadn’t been offed in the eighties.
“I’m slumming, G-man.” The kid, Jesse, gave him a sidelong grin. “Why else would I be on the mudflat?”
Grif cut his eyes to the wavering form of a woman, wingless, next to him.
“Oh, this is Mei.” Jesse jerked his head at his Take. “She’s newly dead.”
“I can see that.”
She was also compact, Asian, and wearing sensible black heels and a crisp pantsuit. Must have been working late when she’d been bumped. Grif didn’t know how she’d died—death wounds never showed in the ether—but she was lucky no matter the method. Dressed like that she could spend eternity with a little dignity.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Shaw,” said Mei.
“You know my name,” Grif said evenly, before turning a dead-eyed stare back on Jesse. “Why does she know my name?”
But Mei was the one who stepped forward and answered. “We’ve been speaking of you, Mr. Shaw.”
He glanced at her, but busied himself lighting a cigarette. “You’re pretty calm for someone who’s just been slugged.”
As she and Jesse were still pounding mud, she’d been killed within the hour, and probably half that, since her etheric form hadn’t yet begun the Fade. If Jesse didn’t see her back before it faded altogether, she’d disappear entirely, and ghosts were almost impossible to find, even for a Centurion.
But Jesse didn’t seem worried. “Mei’s a psychologist. Or she was, until one of her clients decided she was a whack quack.”
“It was that asshole, Collins. I just know it.” Her professional demeanor dropped for a moment and she shook her head. “He’s a narcissistic manic with a coke problem and mommy issues. I should have buried him in his eval.”
“So how’s it going, homes?” Jesse turned to Grif, deliberately using the eighties slang Grif hated. The first time Jesse had said it, Grif thought he’d meant “Holmes,” as in Sherlock.
“Naw, it means you’re my homie,” Jesse had said, punching his biceps, and bouncing backward before Grif could return the punch. “My brothah. My friend.”
But Grif wasn’t any of those things, so as he lit a stick, he told the other Centurion the same thing he’d told Luis earlier in the day. “Don’t call me that.”
Kids these days, Grif thought, shifting the now-silent hat on his head. No respect for their elders.
“Whatever, dawg. I’m just the messenger.” Jesse fluttered his wings, enjoying the play on words.
Grif flicked ash. “You’re molting, messenger.”
Jesse made a face. “Sarge wants you back in the Everlast, bro.”
“Sarge is fine with me here. He gave me a Take. In fact,” Grif said, crossing his arms, “I’m helping find the Lost.”
Mei’s long hair swayed as she took a step forward. “Sympathizing isn’t the same thing as helping, Mr. Shaw.”
Freezing, Grif shifted his eyes to her. “Charming bedside manner, Doc. Can’t imagine why a client would wanna dust you.”
“Ouch, Grif. Mei’s just trying to help.”
Flicking his stick aside, Grif shoved his hands into his pockets. “Didn’t ask for it.”
“I told her about you because Sarge says that the longer you stay on the mud, the more you’re