face. North was getting plenty of air. He was also white-knuckling the can of cheez spray as though he thought Shaw might take advantage of this moment of weakness.
“Don’t worry,” Shaw said, putting his fingers to his temples. “Master Hermes just recognized that I’m now a level-five psychic. I’ll dissolve the cracker with my mind, and while I’m in there, I’ll fix that acid reflux you’ve been—”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” North croaked, swatting Shaw’s hands away from his temples. He managed to swallow, cleared his throat, and in a raspy but more normal voice continued, “First of all, that psychic stuff is bullshit Master Hermes sells you when he has to pay the vig to those Bosnian guys he borrowed from.”
“Oh, he didn’t borrow it. The spirit of George Gershwin showed him where—”
“And second of all, even though I know it’s not real, don’t you ever fucking dare use that juju to mess around inside me.”
“A lesser man would point out that a couple of nights ago you were begging me to mess around inside you.”
“And third of all, I don’t have acid reflux. I got food poisoning from that fucking toxic nacho cheese—”
“Dairy allergy,” Shaw murmured.
Whatever North had been about to say, he didn’t finish because instead he screamed with what sounded like frustration. Softly.
Movement at The Luxemburg’s front door drew Shaw’s attention. In the flood of lights illuminating the building’s exterior, Chris Hobson might as well have been standing on a stage. He was in his late twenties, close to North and Shaw’s age, cute but on the verge of being rat-faced. He was an investment wunderkind at Aldrich Acquisitions, the company owned and run by Shaw’s father, and he’d been responsible for helping Aldrich Acquisitions become a principal investor in several highly valued biotech startups. He was also, Shaw and North were pretty sure, a thief.
“He’s moving,” Shaw said, taking out his phone. He sent the same message to Pari, their assistant, and to her nonbinary datemate, Truck.
Kingshighway was a busy road during the day, but late on Saturday, the flow of cars was irregular. Twice that night an ambulance had pulled into Barnes-Jewish, sirens screaming, and once a Silverado had pulled to the curb ahead of Shaw and North, breaking the crust of old snow so that a troop of frat boys could pile out and piss on the sidewalk. Chouteau boys, undoubtedly—the same college, just up the road, where North and Shaw had met. Other than that, though, the night’s entertainment had consisted of Shaw trying to tap into his past lives and North trying to see how many crackers he could sandwich together with spray cheez.
Now, though, Hobson had emerged, and it was time to work.
Hobson turned up the street, walking toward the portion of St. Louis known as the Central West End. It was a ritzy area, with Chouteau College, Washington University, and the hospital creating anchor points for people with way too much money. It had trendy bars and coffee shops, fancy restaurants, and even a handful of clubs. If Hobson stuck to his usual routine, he’d be going to the Jumping Pig, a hipsterish bar that offered pork infusions and bacon-themed everything. If Shaw had to guess, he’d say it would be closed in a couple of months, but for now, it was Hobson’s go-to.
As though on cue, Hobson went east at the end of the block.
Shaw and North waited a tense ten minutes; the only sounds were their breathing and the cars whipping past, the whisper of slush churned by tires. Then a message came from Pari: an image of Hobson backing through a men’s room door, his hands on Truck’s waist.
HE’S TOUCHING MY DATEMATE!!!!!!
“You’re never going to hear the end of that,” North said, grabbing the door handle. “You know that, right?”
Shaw sighed, nodded, and got out of the car.
At the next break in traffic, they jogged across Kingshighway, cutting at an angle so they reached the sidewalk at the end of the block. Pari was coming towards them along the cross street. Her long, dark hair was bundled up under a ski cap, and she wore a quilted down coat that came to her knees. The bindi today was raspberry colored.
“He’s touching my datemate!” was her first, screeching announcement.
“I think it’s sweet,” Shaw said. “Having a bisexual villain. I think that’s really kind of nice. And progressive. Don’t you think, North?”
Pari’s head swiveled toward him.
“I mean—” Shaw tried again.
North groaned.
“You think it’s sweet? You should have seen Truck’s