Heir of the Dog Black Dog - Hailey Edwards Page 0,11

upstairs neighbors. Great. Perfect timing. Today of all days. Working third shift in a first-shift world sucked.

I shut my eyes and thought peaceful, soothing thoughts until sleep teased the corner of my mind.

Nope. Heavy footsteps tromping overhead jarred me wide awake.

“Can’t you stomp any louder?” I fisted my pillow and flung it at the ceiling. “Not like I’m trying to sleep down here.”

A chair scraped over the floor. Then blessed silence.

I closed my eyes, pressed the pillow over my face and breathed in the scent of mountain spring fabric softener.

Caw.

I jerked upright, and the pillow dropped onto my lap. Across the room, a large black bird hovered outside the glass. Its eyes were ruby red and sharp as the talons clenching the narrow windowsill. Its massive wings flapped as it struggled to perch. When it settled, it tapped the glass with its thick, weathered beak until I slid out of bed and eased toward the window. With glass between us, I could act brave even though my fingers shook when I tested the sturdy lock.

Reassured, I crossed my arms. “Who are you?”

The bird tilted its head to and fro, examining me. Its bloodstained gaze flickered to the latch.

“That’s not going to happen, bird boy.”

Some things, bad things, required an invitation to enter your home. Grant permission once and they never had to ask again. Rescinding the offer was difficult and, in some instances, impossible.

I tapped the glass in front of his face. “What do you want?”

His squawk made my ears ring as he hopped from the ledge and glided out of sight, taking any chance of me sleeping along with him.

Chapter Eight

A text from Shaw woke me five minutes before my alarm buzzed.

Yes, we do.

Three words. That was it.

Unimpressed with how the night was starting, I took a scalding shower and dressed for work. After three powdered donuts, I stopped growling. Of course, that might have had something to do with the five cups of coffee I washed them down with before texting him back with a mood appropriate emoji and thumbing through the FTAs Mable had assigned me.

After an hour passed without a response from him, I turned off my cell, grabbed my keys and messenger bag, and headed out the door. I might as well earn some easy money while I waited.

A quick drive across town brought me to one of those Happy Planet Recycling Centers popping up all over southeast Texas. The owner, Mathew Davis, was my fugitive for the day. Davis was a registered hobgoblin, a trickster fae, who got his kicks slathering on glamour and fooling humans into thinking he was one of them. Usually hobs were harmless pranksters, more of an annoyance than a real threat. But Davis had a mean streak. According to his file, he preferred shenanigans his victims didn’t survive to laugh off.

Oh joy.

With a recycling empire at stake, Mable was betting he would come peacefully.

Hey, a girl could dream.

I stepped inside Davis’s flagship building and into some kind of freakish after-hours’ party.

A portly nude hob zoomed past me riding a scooter. I wrinkled my nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Watch out, toots.” He shook his gnarly fist at me. “You’re standing in the middle of the track.”

Glancing down, I spotted the dotted and dashed chalk lines of a racetrack under my foot.

A second hob shot past wearing goggles, followed by a third and fourth wearing nothing at all.

I found somewhere less nauseating to look and called out, “Mathew Davis?”

One of a dozen hobgoblins—sans glamour—skidded to a halt with the plastic bottle he had been using as a bat raised over his head. Each of his ears was larger than my whole hand. His eyes were a dazzling shade of blue, his skin a grayish warty hide with thick purple hairs sprouting down his arms. His head reached my waist. His stomach was round and taut, his arms spindly and his knees knobby.

“Mathew Davis.” He leapt from his scooter and danced a little jig. “At your service.”

“Hi, Mr. Davis.” I avoided eyeing his free swinging bits. “I’m Thierry Thackeray, the marshal assigned by the conclave to work your case.”

The other hobs sucked in a collective gasp and scurried like roaches into the darkened corners of the massive warehouse. Their chattering made it difficult to hear what Davis said next, but whatever it was sent waves of hysterical laughter crashing through the room as the other hobs bum-rushed me.

Before I could react, they knocked my knees from under me and hefted